Redemption
by patagonia
Summary: Draco Malfoy's world melted into oblivion at sixteen. Since then, he has struggled to put the pieces of his life back together and make his place in the world with Hermione. Their shared past may yet tear them apart and Malfoy's best to salvage their re
1. Disillusion

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not in any way profiting from this. This disclaimer applies to all subsequent chapters. I would think the fact that I don't own Harry Potter is painfully obvious, but disclaimers must be made after all.

This story is now a slightly AU, as it was started long before HBP was released. I like to think that Draco's characterization in HBP confirmed a few of my interpretations of him. This story has been revised and reworked in the last little while. There is nothing that changes the story in any great way, but I just needed to make a few things a bit clearer.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed - your comments mean a lot to me and they have encouraged me to finish this fic when I was ready to abandon it. Thank you.

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**Chapter One **

**Disillusionment**

Wait.

Waiting in the darkness. Try not to think about her. There is nothing you can do for her now. They will take care of her. She will be fine. Yes, it will all be fine. Fear is no good. It will do you no good. She will be fine. She _had_ to be fine. The world would crumble if she wasn't going to be fine, therefore, she had to be fine. Just fine.

Wait.

Do not make any noise. Quietly, very quietly try to shift to a more comfortable position every now and again. Make sure the Disillusionment Charm was still disillusioning him.

Disillusion.

Disillusion.

What, exactly was he to disillusion? His appearance? Himself? His outlook on life? He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. The thoroughly disillusioned young man decided he had better leave the junk philosophy by the wayside and start reading crappy dime-store novels.

Stupid disillusionment.

They couldn't see him. He was safe. That…well that charm he didn't wish to mention should take care of that. They couldn't hear him, smell him, taste, touch or feel him. Perhaps they could smell him. After all, he had been in quite a brawl this evening; he most likely did smell just a bit. A decidedly malicious-looking sneer formed on his lips as he thought of this evening's happenings. He looked down at his bloodied and bruised knuckles which he quickly realized he couldn't see. He was Disillusioned after all. The pain was there. The bruising, stiffness and the blood that had streamed down his hands, across his arms and stained his clothes was there. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. He could smell it, and he could taste it

Wait some more.

By the gods! Did it always take them this long to form a diagnosis?

He had operated on pure adrenalin for the last couple of hours, and now he had to be as still and quiet as was possible. His body wanted to run and rage at the injustice she had suffered, he wanted to shake that worthless boy awake so he could pound on him once more, he wanted to incite others into open revolt for her, but he couldn't alert them to his presence. His muscles slowly atrophied, his legs ached from crouching in one position for so long, and the bruises he had received in the fight throbbed against his skull. Telling himself that he was doing this for her, and none other, was the only thing that kept him still. She was the only person in the world he would do this for. She was the only person in the world he would do anything worth doing for. Surely, he could sit still for a few minutes, hours, days or eternities if it was for her benefit.

Stupid hospital wing.

Draco Malfoy supposed he could see the reasoning behind the lack of good hiding places in the hospital wing, but this was simply ridiculous. He crouched uncomfortably between a changing curtain and a hospital bed in a corner of the hospital wing, his back painfully pressed against a shelving unit full of various disgusting medical supplies and healing potions. It was quite possible that he had found the most tortuous place in the hospital wing for a healthy person.

The hospital wing always reminded Malfoy of the two weeks he had spent here in seventh year, which consequently made him remember what had brought him here in the first place, which would inevitably make him feel ashamed and disappointed in himself. However, the hospital wing was also the place where his friendship with her had first sparked. She had come to him when he was ill, and now, he was sneaking in to see her when she was injured. If he possessed a more romantic soul, he might see the poeticism of their respective stays here, but he couldn't, not when he didn't know the seriousness of her injuries.

Quietly, he tried shifting to a more comfortable position as he peeked over the hospital bed in an attempt to hear what they were saying. The headmaster and the mediwitch were standing over their patient. The mediwitch murmured a few spells that Malfoy recognized as Diagnostic Charms. A soft blue aura surrounded the patient's body, the light pulsing and thrumming around her. The blue light slowly dissolved into an insidious shade of pale red. The mediwitch sighed and the spell was broken.

"Well, she's not going to feel very well for the next few days. Her head hit the wall pretty hard, but she doesn't have a concussion and she's going to have some nasty bruises, but she should be just fine Albus," the mediwitch said.

Malfoy's whole body sighed in relief. The release of his fear was almost painful in its intensity. His assurances to himself that she was going to be fine had obviously not reassured him very much.

The headmaster turned his head towards him and rather quizzically lifted a hairy white eyebrow. Damnit! Too loud. Too loud. He had been so careful. He wanted to cry to the heavens, "But I'm Disillusioned! Can't you see that I'm Disillusioned?"

He can't see me, he can't see me, he's too far away to smell me, I really can't smell all that bad, can I? _Can I?_

The panicked mantra flowed through Malfoy's head, but it brought him no comfort. The headmaster soon turned his gaze away from the hiding spot.

The old mediwitch continued as if she had never lost the headmaster's attention. "I'm much more worried about the effect this attack will have on the school. I don't know what could have prompted Mr Jamison to take such an action, and against a professor. A professor Albus!" Her normally controlled tone betrayed her agitation.

The old man sighed, "I don't know. The students must be told. I will address them tomorrow at breakfast. We must make it clear that such behavior will be severely punished." Another sigh. Albus Dumbledore leaned over the unconscious young woman, brushed some of her wild hair off her face and gently placed a kiss on her bruised forehead.

"Get well soon, Professor Granger," said Dumbledore.

To say that Malfoy was surprised was quite an understatement. One rarely saw the headmaster make such a tender and clearly loving gesture. The old man was kind and gentle with nearly everyone, but it was clear that he kept his emotional distance. There were so many who had relied on him through the years, through battles and deaths that it would have overwhelmed the poor man to experience all the grief and pain people had placed on his head. Any other man could well have crumbled from that burden. A pat on the shoulder and some kind wise words to find support in one's family and friends was the most anyone could expect from the headmaster. But this was. . . Malfoy didn't know what this was. A genuine open smile spread across his features. It was a smile that Hermione was almost exclusively privy to. She did tend to bring out such tenderness and warmth in people.

Dumbledore gently stroked the unconscious woman's face. He pulled himself away from her and straightened his body. "Poppy, would you please attend to Mr Jamison's injuries and make sure that he is well secured."

"Bah! Your brain is more addled than I thought if you think that I will heal that boy's injuries." Her voice rose, and Malfoy swore he saw her nostrils flare. "He called a professor a Mudblood, blamed her for the fall of You-Know-You and then attacked her." She was almost hysterical. "He could have killed her, Albus. He _wanted_ to kill her. I will do nothing to heal him. No! It will not happen!"

Dumbledore gently patted Madame Pomfrey's shoulder. "Now, now Poppy. I know how you feel. I don't doubt that all the staff and students share your sentiments. I don't think we can give up on Mr Jamison. We are dealing with a seriously. . ." he paused to think of the appropriate word, and turned toward Malfoy's corner "_disillusioned_ young man."

Malfoy's head immediately snapped to attention and made eye contact with the headmaster. How the barmy old codger could make eye contact with him when he was Disillusioned was beyond Malfoy's realm of understanding. He was so screwed.

"We will have to speak with him and his parents when he has come around to himself," Dumbledore said, with his trademark calmness.

Madame Pomfrey sniffled a bit and quietly acquiesced.

"Well, I shall take my leave Poppy. Make sure you get some sleep tonight. All will be well." The mediwitch walked rather stiffly toward the young offender, mumbling something to herself about the indignity of it all.

Dumbledore made to walk out of the hospital wing and stopped just in front of the changing curtain that hid Malfoy.

"Professor Malfoy, you may step out now." There was no anger in the kindly man's voice. Stupid omniscient headmaster. With extreme awkwardness, Malfoy stepped from behind the curtain, knocking several medical instruments to the floor. Cursing loudly, he cast the counter charm on himself and rid himself of his Disillusionment.

"You could have come to see her, Draco. Surely, as her dearest friend, we would not deny you." Malfoy suspiciously regarded the old man and the twinkle in his eye. It was common knowledge that Madam Pomfrey would allow no one to spend the night in the hospital wing but her patients. There had been a few exceptions during the war years, but that was all in the past now.

"I did not think you would allow me to stay the night with her," he said tautly.

"Ah Professor, I'm afraid that Professor Granger needs her rest-"

"I will _not_ allow her to stay alone in this room with that-that boy," Malfoy spit out, pointing to the boy at the far end of the wing who had harmed her. The boy who had cast a powerful Dark spell that had thrown her body against the wall with a sickening crunch, the boy who had wanted to kill her.

"I will stay with her tonight," Malfoy said. He straightened his body and tightened his jaw as he prepared to do battle with the headmaster. One way or another, Malfoy would stay with Hermione tonight.

"I see. I understand your concern for Professor Granger's well-being, but I am much more concerned about Mr Jamison's well-being in your presence." The headmaster looked…was it disappointed, and maybe angry? The twinkle appeared to have gone on holiday. Bloody hell, he was angry. "Your method of subduing him was most. . .unusual and might I add, improper, especially from a professor."

Malfoy's posture slumped a little and he shifted under the stony gaze. Somehow the headmaster could always reduce him to a quivering first-year caught trying to get his classmates into trouble. However his conviction to stay with Hermione had not lessened, he just felt slightly ashamed as well.

"I, well, I er-" Malfoy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It would do no good to lie to the headmaster, the old man had always possessed the uncanny ability to see right through him. "I was angry, and I uh. . ." he swallowed, "see the thing is - I just reacted. I didn't think. He was going to do her serious harm, and I just. . . I just couldn't allow that." Malvoy's voice broke on the last word.

"That is quite obvious, Professor. I do not like to see any of my students treated in such a manner." Dumbledore raised his hand as Malfoy made to interrupt. "I fully understand your reaction, but I can not excuse it. What Mr Jamison did was unacceptable, but it does not warrant the use of so much physical force."

"I understand," Malfoy muttered.

"Come, you may stay with her," Dumbledore said. Malfoy smiled wryly in thanks. Both men knew that Malfoy would do anything to stay at Hermione's side tonight, and Dumbledore's permission was merely a formality, but it was nice to have it all the same. "But if Mr Jamison is any worse for wear, you will feel no mercy."

Something greater than disappointment hit Malfoy - he had not consciously intended to harm the boy, but he hated that boy more than any other living being for hurting his Hermione. But it didn't matter that Malfoy was not allowed to touch the boy. She was all that mattered. Being near her was all that mattered. Dumbledore guided the young professor to Hermione's bedside and transfigured the adjacent bed into a fluffy armchair.

"I daresay you will find this a bit more comfortable than Poppy's shelves. I'm sure our Hermione will be glad to see you in the morning," Dumbledore smiled.

Malfoy muttered a thank you. He settled himself next to his best friend as the headmaster made his way out of the hospital wing.


	2. Noise

**Chapter Two**

**Noise**

Well.

He was here now, watching over her just as he had told Dumbledore he would. Malfoy spent several long minutes making sure she was tucked in properly, brushing her unruly hair out of her face, making sure she had a glass of water on her bedside table just in case she needed it and generally doing anything else he could to make sure she was comfortable. Every movement was slow, deliberate and very quiet. He took great care in touching her as little as possible – he had no desire to wake her. Looking at her also seemed unbearable at the moment. In his ministrations, he had glimpsed a small gash on her forehead. He didn't want to see the dried blood, not on her face.

Malfoy smiled a humorless smile as he completed the increasingly useless tasks for her comfort. She would call his muted actions noise, as contradictory as that sounded. Often were the times she would tell him to stop making so much noise, which she considered to be those mundane and banal tasks to which we attach such importance that keep us from thinking on the bigger questions of life, whatever they may be. It had something to do with mortality and love, but Malfoy wasn't entirely certain about that. He was positive that she had couched it in much more poetic terms. Either way, it had confused him then and it confused him now. He had often explained to her that action was sometimes better than reflection, just to get a rise out of her, but she would just smile that perfect little Hermione smile that suggested that he had no idea what she was really talking about, which of course he didn't.

Unfortunately for Malfoy, there was not exactly a lot for him to do for her, so he concentrated on making himself more comfortable. He found a blanket and some pillows and took much more care than was entirely necessary to make sure his fluffy chair was snug. He rolled up his sleeves and removed his shoes. He took an absurd amount of time trying to find the best place to store his shoes – under the chair, under Hermione's bed, maybe Pomfrey's office. In any case, it was just noise and Malfoy could not prolong it any more.

The chair was pulled as close as possible to her bedside without facing it and Malfoy settled in, trying not to look at her. Several more long minutes passed – hunched over, elbows resting on knees, eyes studying the lackluster floor.

Merlin, it was quiet in here. The silence was so complete, so encompassing that Malfoy found himself trying to quiet his own breath, as it seemed to echo in the cavernous room. He traced his foot along the lines of the floor tiles in a vain attempt to dispel the silence. The quiet made him feel a little out of sorts and he was unsure what to do with himself. Sleep was not an option, not when that boy was in the same room as his Hermione.

Hermione moved a bit in her sleep and her hand fell off the side of the bed into Malfoy's line of vision. Her hand sliced through the silence of the hospital wing and it suddenly became the focus of his entire world. His eyes swept over its lines and contours. It seemed an abstract, otherworldly thing to him – perhaps it was the moonlight that made it appear translucent like that. Tentatively, Malfoy reached out and lightly ran his fingers over the back of her hand, tracing her veins. A few more minutes passed and he took her little hand into his own. He grinned as he regarded her cute stubby little fingers.

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_Seventh Year_

Books and parchments were scattered all over the table in the center of the Head dormitory common room he shared with Hermione as he studied for Potions NEWTS. Was there anything worse in the world than Potions NEWTS? Malfoy liked to think so, but he knew from personal experience that it wasn't true. He strummed his quill on the table. He was having serious difficulty concentrating on the properties of moonstone and its subsequent reactions to bezoars.

Malfoy scribbled in the margins of his notes. On any other day, he would have long ago given up on studying and instead amused himself by dangling Crookshanks's toys just out of his reach. It really was quite a shame that more people didn't recognize the comic genius of Crookshanks. Malfoy had readily told Hermione that Crookshanks was his favorite person in the world. She just rolled her eyes at him and told him he didn't know enough people. Of course, Malfoy did know a lot of people, it was just that in comparison to Crookshanks, the animal was quite often the better person.

Today, however, he could not put off his revisions any longer. The NEWTS were looming ever closer. He still had a couple of months, but the professors seemed to take it upon themselves to drain any and all enjoyment out of the next several months by assigning far more work than was necessary. In some ways, Malfoy was grateful for the work, because it kept his mind off what was going on in the rest of the Wizarding World.

Firmly telling himself that he had to concentrate and must keep studying, Malfoy shook out his arms and reapplied himself with renewed vigor to the most fascinating properties of moonstone.

His resolve lasted all of four minutes. His mind had gently slipped away from him within those few minutes, wondering when Granger would reappear, wondering if there would be fruit crumble for desert tomorrow, wondering if he would ever care about the properties of moonstone.

He tried to keep his mind from wandering as it often did, but he did not have the strength to deny those wrenching memories from seeping into his mind. The stench of sweat and blood, the screams of suffering and the images of frightened faces occasionally slipped through his barriers reminding him of images and sounds he wished to forget, further imprinting his cowardice upon him.

The portrait hole flew open and a very irate Head Girl stomped through, throwing her books to the ground. Hermione Granger did not throw books anywhere. This could not be good. Malfoy did not consciously notice it, but those horrid memories slithered out of his mind immediately upon her arrival. They had a tendency to do that in her presence.

"What's wrong, Granger?" Malfoy asked in a tone he hoped was comforting but in reality was gruff and cold. He had not quite yet figured out the intricacies of a reciprocal, yet guarded friendship.

"No! Do I look okay?" she asked angrily.

If Malfoy were to be completely honest, he would tell her that she did not look okay – her clothes were rumpled, her hair seemed to have doubled in volume and sheer frizziness over the course of the day and there were angry red splotches on her face. All in all, she was not a picture of refined beauty. Still, he would really rather not answer that question. It was a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of any kind of good sense did not reply to such an inquiry from an angry woman.

"Er-well you look okay, but uh, something seems to be the matter."

She stomped her way in front of him and thrust her hands in front of his face. Her petite angry form standing over his seated one felt oddly intimidating.

"Look at them. Just look at them," shrieked Granger.

He reached out his own hands to take hers, careful to keep the trembling under control. Thankfully she was too busy being angry to notice his reaction. He turned them over, making quite the show of examining every feature of her hands. Apparently, said examination required him to repeatedly run his own hands and fingers over hers, keeping as much tactile contact as possible.

"Well?" she snapped.

Recovering quite admirably from the effect her touch was having on him, he replied smoothly, "Granger, your hands are quite lovely. Except for a few ink splotches here, here, and well, this whole area over here, they are without fault." That ought to do the trick, he thought as he smirked up at her.

She sniffed and looked down at him rather disgustingly. Once again, Malfoy had incorrectly read the female psyche. "Look at my fingers. Are they not ridiculously short? I mean, look at them. Is this some sort of cosmic joke on Hermione Granger? Well, is it?"

Trancelike, he placed his hand palm to palm with hers. Now that she pointed it out, her fingers were stubby. Stubby, but cute all the same.

"How am I supposed to play Chopin with fingers like these?" she seethed, snatching her hands away from him. She spotted Crookshanks, swept the creature up in her arms and most inelegantly plopped down in her favorite chair.

Ah. The piano. It all made sense now. Hermione had reacquainted herself with the piano in an effort to ease some stress. Until this point, it had worked like a charm. She always walked away from the piano with a serene look on her face. Much to Malfoy's amazement, she even appeared soothed when frustrated with a particular song, giggling when her fingers struck a wrong note.

Malfoy loved to hear her play. Most often, she would not allow an audience in the dusty room that housed the only piano at Hogwarts. But on rare occasions, Malfoy would accompany her to the third floor, lie on his back on the cold floor with his head resting in his hands and revel in her company and the sound. Even when she played an exceptionally enthusiastic song, the gentleness of the sound wrapped around him. He could feel it flow through his being, and the floor didn't seem quite as cold.

He knew Potter and Weasley were invited to her private recitals more often than he was. He suspected that Weasley accompanied her nearly every time, but she did not offer this information, and he did not ask. A slight twinge of jealousy settled itself in his gut, but he did not mark it.

"Did you know that Chopin had abnormally large hands, and composed music for people with abnormally large hands?" she asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated and defeated. He smirked, and opened his mouth to comment on the size of his own hands. "And don't even say it Malfoy, I know what they say about large hands."

Exit smirk.

"I know I'm being unreasonable. I don't even particularly like the piece." She shrugged. "It's just that with the NEWTS coming up and…well everything. You know," she said quietly as she cast a glance at him across the room. It seemed to him that she was willing him to understand just what she was saying.

He knew what she meant. Everything. As in You-Know-Who everything. As in, the Dark Lord is coming to get you and maybe if you're lucky, you won't be subjected to obliterating torture and agony before he mercilessly slaughters you and everyone you love as he and his minions have done to countless others. Everything. A current of quiet fear coursed through the wizarding population, and he could fully understand her anxiety, especially when he considered the fact that she was best friend to Harry Potter. She hugged the discontented cat closer to her.

This was not like her. She said what she meant; she did not try to convey meaning with a vague description like "everything." This was not right. She comforted him, not the other way round. She had the strength, the understanding, the intelligence and a seemingly endless reserve of empathy.

The world itself didn't seem right if Granger was upset. But then, he supposed that she experienced pain, suffering and insecurity just like everyone else. It was just that this was the first time she let him see her vulnerability and Malfoy had no idea what to do with it.

The silence of the room closed in on him, suffocating him. Comforting another human being was something he did not understand, something he could not grasp. How was one to proceed in such a task? He did not know as he had never really done it. He simply did not care when another was in pain. But this was different. This was Granger, and that little fact made it different. Why that was, Malfoy could say. He just knew it was different.

Granger had comforted him before, but for some unknown reason Malfoy could not remember precisely how she had done it. He knew he needed to act, and try to form a plan of attack, as they say. But the only thing that he could grasp at the moment was the thought that she had the ugliest cat he had ever seen, with its bowed legs, squashed face and grotesque mass of orange fur.

Silent noise.

The quiet rapidly became more oppressive. Breathing became difficult. It was like a physical weight bearing down on him. Think. He could not disappoint her. For the first time in their thoroughly strange relationship, she was reaching out to him. Eyes downcast and unfocused, she gently stroked the now purring cat. Malfoy was desperate to reach out to her and yet entirely unsure of what to do. He didn't understand it – mere minutes ago he was trying to figure out the mystery of her hands and now she needed him, and he couldn't deliver.

Granger's eyes focused and she gently set a very happy Crookshanks on the floor. She sighed and stood up. Her slow sad walk carried her to the stairway that led to her room.

"Hermione, wait!" he called out to her frantically as he jumped out of his chair. It wasn't until she stood up that he realized that this was his chance. It could be his one chance to prove to her that he could be as good a friend to her as she was to him, that even though they had one of the strangest friendships Hogwarts had ever seen, they could make it work.

Hermione paused for a moment when he used her given name, but it was too late. "Goodnight, Malfoy. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Her tone was quiet and gentle, but he was sure he could hear her disappointment.

He had failed her.


	3. The Mind

**Chapter Three**

**His Mind**

Malfoy sighed. He played with her fingers for a moment more, and gently placed her hand on her stomach. That stupid, but cute hand of hers reminded him his inadequacy.

The creepy darkness of the hospital wing was getting to him. He really hated this place.

Malfoy attempted to tear himself away from these thoughts. Regrettably, there was nothing in the hospital wing to pique his interest and blessedly distract him. Only Hermione and Mr Jamison, neither of whom could take him away from the direction of his thoughts.

As much as he loved Hermione, she was so tied up in his past that she reminded him of things he wished to forget. Fully conscious, she could easily divert him when he got like this. She would tell him a horrible joke, mess up the punch line and they would laugh together. The conversation would take a turn for the silly and inane.

What did Professor Dumbledore's skivvies look like? Where in Merlin's name did Luna Lovegood get her fashion sense? Was Professor Snape good in bed? He did have that dark, brooding, thing about him. Did the proprietor's of the Hog's Head have difficulty with cleaning charms? Did Crookshanks ever look happy? Was he ever happy? Can cats experience happiness as we know it? Were we ever really that young and naïve?

These conversations often bordered on the ludicrous, but they meant the world to Malfoy. She was his first real friend, and he treasured her and everything about her – most especially her ability to make him feel human and maybe even a little loved.

But she was not here to soothe his anxieties. She was not here to forcefully tell him that the things he had seen and done were not his fault. He could almost hear her voice, "What do you think they would have done to you if you had tried to stop them Malfoy?" His mind scrambled to hold onto her logical and gentle reasoning. But it was not to be, he could not grasp it, so he was left to his own derisory devices.

He did not want to think of these things. Not now. If he was to be honest with himself, he would never wish to think on them. It would bring nothing but anguish and confusion.

Malfoy wondered if confusion was his new state of being. He was often confused.

How could one possibly make sense of the things he had seen? Gods, that had all happened years ago, and he was no closer to understanding anything. No, that was not true. He understood Hermione, and how much she meant to him. He could not have survived without her. His body could still be in tact and well, but his mind would be dust. She, however, did not need him. Her mind and body would be healthy and intact with or without him

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Directly after their sixth year, the world was black and white. People and ideas were easily categorized into two camps. Us and them. Purebloods and mudbloods/blood traitors. Rich and poor. The list went on and on, and Malfoy knew his place. He was comfortable in this place. He and his kind may have to do some rather horrible things to achieve their goals, but in this case the end did indeed justify the means. _They_ were inherently different, and _they_ had to be put in their place. The world was explainable and static.

The excitement he felt when his father invited him to partake in certain Dark traditions had almost overwhelmed him. Malfoy was infinitely pleased that his father thought him worthy to join in such festivities. Malfoy revered and his father, as much as a sixteen year old boy is able to. He had often emulated his father and he was finally being rewarded.

Malfoy's greed for power over another human being had thrilled him. The electric anticipation was something he had never before experienced. He had known that this was what his was born to do. Wizarding society bestowed upon him a certain place, or that is what he told himself, and he was more than eager to click into that venerated position.

But Malfoy had been completely unprepared for what lay ahead of him at these Dark gatherings. He simply could not have imagined the things Death Eaters did to people, the twisted and utterly tormented expressions these poor muggles wore, the blood and innards bursting out of wounds and the eventual madness and pleas for deaths. Malfoy had felt an overwhelming sense that some things were simply unacceptable. He wore his shock and disgust well, but throughout the summer, the images and sounds increasingly tormented him

By the end of the summer, the world was chaos, at least in Malfoy's mind. The air was toxic and the ground quicksand. Nothing made sense anymore and he retreated into his own mind.

At one point, he had stopped eating and sleeping and he actually thought that he was just a mind. The body, his very Malfoy body did not exist. Therefore, the things he had done, or rather the things he had failed to stop were not his fault. A mind could not physically pull one person off another. Then his mind would notify him that a person could use his mind to change another's, and he would once again collapse in a spiral of self-loathing and confusion.

But he could not let anyone know what was going through his mind. Death Eaters did not look kindly upon weakness in their allies. He quickly learned to school his face not to betray any emotion; his voice and expression hardened. Stoicism enveloped his outer being. He desperately tried to force the same thinking on his mind, and was successful to a degree. Unfortunately, he found he could not force himself to forget what he saw and heard. His mind got in the way.

Lucius Malfoy mistakenly took his son's apparent indifference to human suffering as a sign of strength. He took great delight in the fact that his son would stand on the sidelines detachedly watching dark revels. Blood and torture did not appear to bother the younger Malfoy. Lucius believed his son saw himself above such base pleasures, and would one day take his place in the Dark Lord's inner circle.

These dark happenings did in fact greatly disturb young Malfoy, but he convinced himself that they didn't. The Dark Lord saw these revels as means of distinguishing young prodigy, and he was most impressed with Malfoy. He fully expected to grace the young Malfoy with the Dark Mark once his school days were over. The megalomaniac was unable to penetrate the young man's mind through legilimency, and saw it as a sign of great power.

It was not so much a display of power as it was a means of self-preservation. Malfoy had to close his mind to keep the anguish from taking over and destroying him. His mind was a closely guarded fortress. He attempted to build himself a new reality – something had to make sense. The world and his being could not be as anarchic and nonsensical as it seemed. Success was limited. Memories seeped through his barricades on occasion. At the very least he wasn't landing himself in St Mungo's.

He couldn't wait until school started and he would be free of these horrible gatherings. His mind might even find some sacred rest.

Surprisingly, to him at least, an owl brought a letter congratulating Malfoy on making Head Boy. Lucius Malfoy did not seem so surprised by this information, but he was proud of his son nonetheless. After school started, Malfoy heard rumors that his father and his "friends" had threatened and blackmailed all eligible seventh year boys into declining the post of Head Boy. Potter and Weasley must not have been considered for Head Boy. Malfoy seriously doubted that they would bow to his father's pressure. It made sense when he thought about it – he was not the best student, he had been a barely adequate prefect and he was less than accepting of others.

Malfoy was sure his father had plans for him as Head Boy. Lucius was not one to disappoint. The commands and words circled in his head, but they never really landed.

"Dumbledore-"

"Earn his trust-"

"Granger, she will be Head Girl – get close to her and-"

"Potter-"

"Weasley-"

"There is some order-"

"Find out-"

"This Lupin, we think he-"

"Weakness – find a weakness."

Malfoy did not wish to hear of his father's plans, but made sure to appear captivated. He had enough trouble keeping his own self from disintegrating into oblivion that he simply could not allow his father's world to penetrate the one Malfoy made for himself. Weakness – he was weak; he would soon crack under his father's custody. He had taken his mind too far – he had blocked far too much out – most days, he couldn't even remember if he ate or not. This also pleased Lucius – under the Dark Lord's command, the boy could not even be diverted by such primal urges as food and sleep.

He needed to get away.

School. School will come soon. You can hide there. You'll have your own room. You can hide there. Clear your mind. School will come soon.

The train at Platform 9 ¾ was the most blessed thing Malfoy had ever seen. Lucius had gripped his arm and none too gently reminded him of duties.

Somehow, he found himself in the head dormitory the first night of school. He didn't even remember the welcoming feast. No matter. He was safe now.

"Listen Malfoy, if we have to work together all year, can we at least try to be civil to one another?" a girl asked prissily.

No response. He turned to face the voice. He could barely hear what she was saying. This girl did not factor into his new world. No one but Draco Malfoy factored into his new world. He vaguely remembered some girl talking to him and pulling at his trousers on the train, but he could not remember. He did not think it was this girl in front of him.

Anticipating the start of the school year, Malfoy could not get himself to calm down. The jumpiness invaded his mind and body and sleep had evaded him for some time. He had taken blocking out the world to an extreme. Part of him knew that complete and utter madness would shortly follow.

"Are you even listening to me you little-?" She stopped herself. Anger. She was angry. Yes, he could figure that out.

He grunted in response.

"Okay, so we won't call each other names, at least to each other's face," she added hastily, with a very skeptical look on her face as though she could think of no worse fate than being nice to Draco Malfoy. "And no hexing each other either. I'm sure we can figure out a way to carry out our duties with as little contact as possible."

Another grunt.

"Alright then," she said very business like. The girl took her bags and some angry animal in a carrying case up the stairs to her chambers.

Malfoy stood in the beautifully quiet and calm room for few languorous moments, and then bolted to his own room, stumbling like a drunkard on the way. He collapsed into his sprawling bed, wrapped the voluminous coverings around him and allowed his poor mind and body sacred sleep.

A squawking alarm clock went off the next morning. Malfoy thought this meant he was to get out of bed, but his mind and body had other ideas and he promptly went back to sleep.

Many hours later, Malfoy finally woke. In his heart of hearts, he had hoped he would never wake. That realization disturbed him. How did that thought break out of his mind? He had exerted such control, and it seemed that now he was free of Malfoy Manor and his father, his control was slowing crumbling. His head ached, and his body felt strange and weak. He couldn't remember exactly where he was. He got himself out of bed and stumbled down the stairs to the common room. The girl from last night was sitting at one of the large study tables going over some papers. She looked up, startled as Malfoy tripped over the last step and fell in a heap on the floor. He decided this was as comfortable place as any, and thought he might stay there awhile.

He heard tentative footsteps coming towards him. He turned his head and saw a shoe in front of him – a really ugly unfashionable brown shoe, and he reached out to touch it. His mind could handle a shoe. A hand gripped his shoulder. He winced from the contact and withdrew his hand.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" questioned the girl. He tried turning over to look up at her, but found himself too weak or too unwilling to do so, so she gently pushed him on his back.

"Merlin, you look like shite Malfoy." He cocked his head and regarded the form in front of him. She was not terribly pretty, but she had a sweet face. Lots of hair. It didn't really even look like hair – it seemed an aura that protected her head from the outside world.

"I like your hair," he croaked.

"I suppose that is a definite sign that you are not okay." She looked at him quizzically for a moment. "C'mon." She gripped his arms to help him up. Movement was painfully slow. His body hurt for some reason. "It's alright, c'mon now." Her voice was so soft and tender. He did not know what to make of it. Her hands guided him when he had difficulty.

Between both their efforts, he finally stood up. "Let's just go over to the sofa and sit down, okay. It's just a little way." His tall lanky frame slumped over a bit and he put his arm around her shoulder for support. Her arm struggled to keep hold of his waist. Through her awkward and jerky efforts, there were able to make their way to the sofa.

"Okay, now, you just sit down alright?" He slid from her and flopped down on the sofa. She gently pulled him into a sitting position. His head lolled around. He had lost control over his body. This little slip of a girl was quite literally pushing him around.

"Oh my god," she breathed, "what happened to you?" She reached out to touch a raw red scar on his chest. He could not exactly remember where he got that scar – something about becoming immune to pain. There had been some sort of test. Someone had cut him slowly and deliberately, and he was not to fight it. Control – he pulled away. She was getting far too close; he had to put an end to it. Even though her touch was warm and pleasant, he could not let her in.

The girl was not to be deterred. "What is going on here Malfoy? Is this some sort of sick joke? Look at me," she demanded, her voice quiet, but hard.

He lifted his head to look at her. No No No. He could not do this. How was he doing this? Her reluctant kindness disarmed him. His own mother had never been quite this gentle with him. Their eyes met, and whatever she saw there made her gasp and cover her mouth with her hand. Her widened eyes darted over his body and returned to his eyes.

"When did you eat last Malfoy?" her tone was far too caring. He forced his flopping head down and saw his ribs poking through his skin. He lifted a bony hand and ran his finger over them. Why were his ribs poking out?

He chocked back a sob. Oh no. No, he couldn't break. He had worked so hard. His mind was a fucking fortress. The Dark Lord couldn't penetrate his mind; surely he could withstand this little girl with the ugly shoes.

"I don't know," came a strained whisper. He started shivering, and to his own consternation, it wasn't just because he was half naked and cold. A blanket found its way around his shoulders, and a hand lightly caressed his back. Before he realized what he was doing, he buried his face in the girl's neck and wrapped his arms tightly around her. His mind broke loose, and he needed an anchor.

Her body immediately stiffened. After a bit of hesitation, her arms came around him, and she made some comforting noises.

"_Oh God no, please, please, leave her be, she's just a child." Wretched screaming. A blood covered, half dead woman trying to protect her child. "No No, you'll not have her." Desperate and futile attempts to shield a little girl._

He felt something wet on his face.

_Screaming. Screaming. There was always screaming. Cruel laughter and jeers._

He realized he was crying.

"_Please, please, I'll do anything, just let her go." _

"_Anything – stupid woman, we can make you do anything we want." A fist to her face._

Labored breathing. Why was he having trouble breathing?

"_Imperio!" A blood covered, half dead woman brutally strangles her own child. She wore the sweetest smile he had ever seen._

"_Finite Incantatum." Heart-wrenching sobs. A thoroughly broken woman rocking her dead daughter, begging for death._

His throat constricted and his face burned with suppressed fury and anguish.

_Laughter. Laughter. Why were they laughing? Must not show disgust, pity, fear. _

"_She was fun – took a bit to break that one." Laughter._

"_Did you see her face when she realized what she did?" Cruel laughter._

His mind could hold it in no longer. The fortress burned. Sobs wracked his entire body. He could feel it in his toes. Every nerve in his body released his pain and anguish. He was on fire.

His hands gripped her with all the strength he possessed. The girl held him tightly and gently rocked him as helpless screams filled the common room.


	4. Chaos

**Chapter Four**

**Chaos**

----------

_Seventh Year_

A clock ticked somewhere. It was most distracting. Malfoy slowly and rather reluctantly opened his eyes and stared at the decorative ceiling above him. This was not his ceiling. The smell in this place was funny – disgustingly medicinal and sterile. It didn't take too long to figure out that he was in the hospital wing. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows casting creepy shadows along the walls.

He made to sit up and almost immediately a woman bustled over to him and pushed him back down. The forcefulness of her action surprised him.

"You have to conserve your strength Mr Malfoy," she said crisply. She placed a hand on his forehead. "Still clammy." The medi-witch rummaged around in a cart next to his bed, and produced a small bottle filled with blue liquid.

"Never in my life have I seen a student so malnourished and exhausted," she tsked. "Here, I want you to drink all of this. It will make you feel better." Wary of disobeying the imposing woman, he obediently drank the potion that was supposed to make him feel better, but didn't.

She roughly pulled the covers over him. "I will inform the Headmaster that you've awoken. Stay still," she said sternly. He liked this woman – her speech and movements were brisk and uncaring.

Malfoy moved his eyes back to the ceiling. He had never noticed the intricate designs before. The whole thing seemed very out of place in the centuries-old castle. Lines and swirling colors intersected each other. His eyes darted over the ceiling. He could find no pattern there, and this disturbed him somewhat. He moved his head sideways and squinted his eyes, but it made no difference. Where were the lines going? The stupid colours didn't even match – faded and cracked blues, oranges, purples, reds, greens, yellows, browns and blacks. It was chaotic, and he didn't like that. There was no order there – it made no sense. Things had to make sense. The world was supposed to make sense.

He comforted himself with the thought that a blind house-elf probably painted the ceiling.

Quite suddenly, something that felt like a bludger pounced on his stomach. In his weakened state, it took him a moment to recover. Despite the medi-witch's warning, he pushed himself to a sitting position with much difficulty. Whatever had taken up residence on his stomach shifted as he moved.

An exceedingly ugly orange cat sat contentedly purring in his lap. Malfoy briefly wondered if the cat was born with that squashed face or if it had suffered some injury along the way. He delicately poked a finger at its face. Unsurprisingly, the cat lightly bit the offending finger, but continued purring. Strange animal.

He awkwardly patted its head, as he wasn't exactly sure what to do with a cat. The only animals he had ever owned were owls. Unlike cats, owls were actually useful. He let his hands run down the animal's back and through the unruly fur. The cat nestled further into him. The animal's presence was almost comforting.

Footsteps echoed in the desolate hospital wing. The medi-witch returned with a very old man. Very old man. He knew this man. His mind slowly grasped the fact that this was Headmaster Dumbledore.

"What is that animal doing in here again?" the woman snapped and brusquely pushed the unsightly and now growling cat away. Malfoy watched as she shooed it out of the hospital wing and closed the doors behind it.

"How are you feeling tonight Mr Malfoy?" the old man questioned.

Malfoy immediately renewed his dislike this man. What right did he have to ask him how he felt? How dare anyone ask him such a thing when he could not possibly answer? Where was that medi-witch he so liked? She seemed to have disappeared.

His mind had. . . Malfoy didn't know what his mind had done. He felt so confused. Barriers were destroyed. Other realities were obliterated. Things were remembered that wished to stay forgotten. He was exceedingly disappointed in himself. He had worked so hard, and now, it was all gone. The images, sounds and smells of the things he had witnessed exploded out of his mind. He shivered as he remembered the intensity with which they struck.

Just a few short weeks ago, he was the picture of cold indifference and last night – was it just last night? – he had wept into a strange girl's shoulder. Strange girl – oh gods – it was Granger. His breathing quickened. How could he have been so stupid as to let _Granger_ of all people see him like that? He would never live this down.

He looked down at his hands and attempted to rationalize his actions. He must regain control. Weakness was not an option. He brutally berated himself for his weakness. He took several deep breaths, blissfully unaware that his visitor watched the play of emotions on his face.

"I'm fine," he replied in a clipped tone. Just because he had lost self-control last night did not mean that he had to make a repeat performance tonight.

"I see," Dumbledore replied. "Mr Malfoy I am sure you can understand our concern. You gave Miss Granger quite a fright last night." Granger again – how could he ever forgive himself for letting her see that?

Malfoy cleared his throat and chose his next words carefully.

"Yes, well, I was tired." Not exactly what he was going for, but he still evaded the bigger question that lingered unspoken between the two of them.

"You were, and are, more than tired my dear boy. You look as though you have not eaten in weeks." The headmaster settled himself into the very uncomfortable looking chair at his bedside and looked into Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy immediately turned his head away to avoid the penetrating gaze.

"I know I am not your favorite person in the world Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said. Malfoy snorted and Dumbledore continued, "But I wish to help you in any way I am able. We live in difficult times, and the very best of us cannot make sense of things that are happening."

A sense of panic was building in Malfoy's gut. What did this man know? How could he possibly know what he witnessed this summer? He couldn't possibly know. Dumbledore and his goody-goody minions wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near him or his kind.

He turned to face Dumbledore and a sneer graced his face. He congratulated himself on figuring out that this man didn't know anything about him.

Dumbledore sighed as he intently watched the young man's face.

"Well, I guess there is nothing to do but allow you to recover. I expect Poppy will release you within a week or two. I will contact your parents and let them know you are in fine, as you say."

"No!" Malfoy said, far too quickly and forcefully. Fuck! Was that a look of triumph on the old bastard's face? He was thoroughly baffled as to how Dumbledore had turned his victory into a failure so quickly.

"I see. Well, you are of age and therefore, able to make your own decisions, so I will not press the issue. Goodnight Mr Malfoy. I do hope you recover quickly." And with that, the headmaster took his leave, leaving Malfoy to his confused thoughts.

In the next two days, Malfoy spent much of his time rediscovering his appetite and avoiding looking at the ceiling. It was difficult as he was usually on his back. He found that the lack of order and purpose in the design greatly bothered him.

He slept most of the time. He spent the rest of his time trying not to think about anything. Various magazines and comic books kept him nominally occupied.

He knew that he had to figure out where to go from here. His father's world had nearly destroyed him, as Madame Pomfrey kept reminding him by admonishing him for his current state. It was the only world he knew – it was not comfortable, but it was familiar. He knew what to expect from these people - that being cruelty. He found that it was best not to think of these things. Maybe he would decide later, or let life simply take him where it wanted him. His father must have surely heard about his sojourn in the hospital wing and could very well be thoroughly disgusted with his son now.

Several of his housemates came to see him in an effort to confirm or deny one of the many rumors surrounding him. Apparently, several people had seen a harried-looking Granger levitating his unconscious self to the hospital wing. He kept his answers short and curt – he had no desire to see these people. How could they possibly understand him? Most of his housemates got the idea and didn't press him.

Thankfully, it seemed Granger did not tell anyone the particulars of that evening, so his classmates relied on their own overactive and pathetic imaginations to explain his current condition. His favorite rumor was that he called Granger a mudblood one too many times, and she snapped, and had tried to stun him. She was seen around the castle the last few days with a thoughtful and somewhat bewildered look on her face. He liked the idea of an unbalanced Granger.

He found, much to his own dismay that he couldn't get Granger out of his head. She was witness to his most vulnerable moment. He feared that she knew more about him than anyone else. That night she held him, he remembered babbling brokenly and incoherently about his mind and the things he had seen. He was sure the blasted girl was smart enough to figure things out.

It was during this time that his father sent him several letters, which he summarily ignored. He felt it was the best course for the time being. His father was an escaped convict after all, and whatever his feelings towards Dumbledore, he felt safe under the old man's watch. For the first time in his life, he was glad that the Dark Lord and his ilk feared Dumbledore.

On the third day, he finally had enough strength to walk the length of the hospital wing, and then collapsed back into his bed, exhausted. His body was slowly returning to its normal condition. Malfoy found that if he worked his body into exhaustion, he simply didn't have the inclination or the energy to think of . . . _things_.

It was also the day that Granger came to see him.

She burst into the hospital wing carrying rolls of parchments and a book bag that looked like it weighed a tonne. Her wild hair was tied in a messy bun, held together by an old quill. He would have found her appearance comical had he not been overcome with anxiety at facing her.

She unceremoniously dumped everything on the bed next to him and turned towards him. She avoided eye contact with him and spoke in a business-like tone.

"I brought your homework, and Professor Snape retrieved your books and things from your room." She handed him a role of parchment. "Here, I wrote down all your readings and assignments. I don't have all the same classes as you, so I'm not entirely sure about Divination and Muggle Studies, but I'm sure that if you have questions or anything, you could find someone else." She pointed to the other roles of parchment on the bed. "Professor Flitwick showed me a charm that copied all my notes, so you have the notes from Defense, Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms."

She shifted uncomfortably and sat down on the bed next to him. "So, er- if you have any questions about any of the homework, you can just ask me."

"Why are you doing this?" Malfoy questioned harshly. He did not want this girl anywhere near him.

Granger shrugged, "Dumbledore asked me to."

"So, what, you're his little lackey?" he sneered. Granger had a temper – she would leave him in peace if he made her angry enough.

But again, she just shrugged. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"No."

Ignoring his response, she continued on, "Has the world gone mad, or are you actually taking Muggle Studies?" She was looking at him now – amusement in her eyes, and a smirk on her face. "At first I thought that there had to be some sort of horrible horrible mistake, but no," she continued on very dramatically, "here I find that the world has indeed gone mad. Left is right and up is down. It was the only explanation I could find for Draco Malfoy to be in Muggle Studies." She was almost laughing by now.

"What can I say, it's an easy class. You muggles aren't exactly a complex people."

She grinned, "I'm not a muggle Malfoy."

"You might as well be," he bit back, "It's obvious to anyone with half a brain that you study so hard because you know, deep inside that you'll never really be a witch. You try to drown yourself in the magical world in an effort to forget your lowly _muggle_ roots. You might forget them Granger, but you'll never be free of them." That ought to get her the bloody hell away from him. If it didn't, he would just call her a mudblood a few times, and she would take off, hopefully crying. He desperately wanted to see her cry.

"You're such a sodding idiot Malfoy. I'm not trying to forget my roots." Why was she still grinning? "And I can't help it if I have. . . an _insatiable_ appetite for knowledge." Insatiable appetite? Hermione Granger? When had she become so. . . playful and flirtatious?

He quirked an eyebrow at her, but could find no other response. He was angry that she had rendered him tongue-tied and made him feel more than he had since that night in their common room, even if it was anger and annoyance.

"I'll bring you some more homework tomorrow Malfoy. Sleep well." Still grinning, Granger grabbed her bag and left him.

Over the course of the next few days, his visitors slowed to a trickle. His own housemates were baffled with his behavior – he made it quite clear he didn't want anything to do with any of them. He found that not speaking and evading questions and comments worked quite well. Even Pansy left teary-eyed, swearing she never wanted to see him again.

He was quite glad they all stopped bothering him. Even though he did his best not to think on anything of great import, he knew that he had irrevocably changed over the last few months. The people he knew and liked last year meant nothing to him this year.

Only Granger visited him everyday. She would bring his homework, as he was sure she was ordered to. They would snip at each other a bit, Malfoy viscously, Granger playfully, and she would leave after a few minutes.

The ugly orange cat also popped in for a visit or two. The cat would curl up at the end of his bed until Madame Pomfrey would toss it out sputtering about filthy animals.

His homework was a welcome distraction, even if it did have to come from Granger. He worked harder on his studies these last few days than he had in his entire school career. Currently, transfiguration was frustrating him to no small degree, while the cat sat on his feet.

Tossing his wand on his bedside table, he glanced at the clock on the wall, as he had done every ten minutes for the last couple of hours. It was nearly six o'clock. Almost time for Granger's visit. Not that he was looking forward to it or anything like that. He was just bored, that was all. She did break the monotony of homework and recovery, and she thankfully never mentioned that night in their common room.

Right on time, Granger burst through the room carrying a stack of books and papers. He found it amusing to request far more books than was necessary from the library. She stumbled a bit as she dropped them on the bed next to him, huffing from the weight she had carried.

"You know Malfoy, one might think that you enjoy seeing me struggle with all these books." He realized he was grinning at her.

"How could you say such a thing Granger? My studies are of utmost importance to me. And you only prove my point that you are not a real witch. You could have just levitated them here." Victory at last!

"Tut tut Malfoy. You know we're not allowed to do magic in the hallways." She always did make short work of his so-called victories. He thought it best not to mention the incident when she had levitated him through the hallways.

"Crookshanks! How many times have I told you not to come in here? Pomfrey will have both our heads one of these days." She scooped up the cat and he happily cuddled into Granger's arms.

"You know this cat?"

"Of course I do. He's mine."

"He comes here often?"

She smirked. "Yes. I think he likes to terrorize people when they are at their weakest." His heart lurched. Did she seem him as weak? Not that he cared what she thought of him. "Whenever Ron ends up here, Christmas comes early for Crookshanks. He loves sinking his claws into Ron when he can't always resist."

"So, Crookshanks doesn't get along with Weasel? I knew I liked the mangy cat for some odd reason." Malfoy did wonder why the animal didn't "terrorize" him as Granger said he was inclined to do.

"Oh shut it Malfoy." She peered at his Transfiguration work. "Are you having trouble with yesterday's assignment? I did too at first," she said, not waiting for his response.

She grabbed his wand and thrust it at him. He took it and she guided his hand. "Here, it's all in the wrist." Her thumb was directly over his pulse point.

"It's kind of complicated. You swish left, and then right and kind of down and around." She took him through the motions a couple of times. "Now you try it."

He did as instructed, said the magic words, and the pillow he was practicing on turned into a rabbit.

"See, it's not so bad. And you just do the reverse movements to turn him back." Once again, he said the magic words, and the pillow returned. He should have pretended to have a bit more trouble; she might have taken his hand again.

They chatted a few more moments about Weasley and Crookshanks. When she told him about the time the cat jumped on Weasley's head and Weasley could not disengage him, he laughed so hard his sides hurt. He would never forget the image of an orange cat with his claws in Weasley, while he danced around shrieking. He hadn't laughed like this in a long time, and he was grateful to Granger for that.

"Gods Granger, I will never forget that," he laughed, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes."

"I don't think I will either," she grinned, "I thought that when Ron and I, you know, started seeing each other, that they might get along a bit better but, oh no, their hatred of each other increased exponentially." Was she blushing? He wondered if Weasley was the cause of her new found sense of playfulness. For some reason, he did not like this, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.

Their next few encounters were just as pleasing to Malfoy. She told him tales of Weasley, Potter and Crookshanks, and he told her of Crabbe and Goyle's general idiocy. She kept her monologues light and friendly, sparing her friends any real embarrassment; he did not feel compelled to do the same for his housemates.

They talked and laughed together, and often made fun of one another. It was nothing too intense, personal or cruel. He did note how easily she had disarmed him these past few days, but for some odd reason, it didn't particularly bother him. Really, she was the only person in his life, except maybe Madame Pomfrey, and even though the old woman didn't treat him quite as coldly as she did at first, she didn't really count.

He was nearing the end of his stay in the hospital wing, Malfoy felt better than he had in months. He had gained weight, he wasn't exhausted with the simplest of activities, and Granger was the only person he talked to anymore. Although their interaction was superficial for the most part, it surprised him how easily the two of them got along.

He never would have guessed at such a thing. Their relationship was strange to say the least. Malfoy held something of himself from her, and he could tell that she did the same. He suspected that she only came to visit him because she was ordered by Dumbledore. It bothered him, and while he enjoyed her company, he did not expect anything from her, but he did hope for something.

Some small part of him also feared her and hated her. He wanted to know her secrets, as she knew his darkest secrets. It confused him that she never mentioned that night or his ramblings. She never asked him about what he had done, seen or known. From what he could see in her expression, she did not judge him for what he had done, or not done. He could see the wariness in her expression, but not disgust, or superiority. She did not give him a reason to distrust her, and yet he did. He imagined that she told Potter and Weasley ever detail of what transpired between them.

Despite all that, he could not forget how she had held and rocked him that night. Madame Pomfrey told him that he had left dark bruises on Hermione's body from clutching her too tightly. He imagined his dark handprints on her back and sides, and wondered if they were black and brown, or black and purple. It was not that he wished to cause her physical pain, but it pleased him to know that he hadleft a mark on her skin, but he did not understand why.

On his last night in the hospital wing, Malfoy decided he was going to ask Hermione something that had bothered him since he came to this place.

"Granger, have you ever noticed the ceiling in here?"

"Of course, I have been in here before you know."

"What do you think of it? Do you like it?" he asked apprehensively. They never spoke of consequential things. She lay on her back on the bed next to him, her legs resting haphazardly on stacks of books and parchments.

"I don't know if it's a matter of liking it or not. It makes me feel. . . I just don't know how to explain it," she sighed, obviously frustrated that the great Hermione Granger could not find the right words with which to express herself. "It's kind of confusing and anarchic isn't it? I guess it's uplifting in a sense, but it's also. . .sad."

"But, I mean, look at it. It doesn't make any sense. There is no order – I see nothing but chaos. I get abstract art and all, but this is pure shite. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?" His voice rose, angry at the very existence of this ceiling. "Everything clashes. It looks like fifty different people painted this thing. I just – I just don't like it. I don't get it."

She turned her head to look at him and asked, "Do you not like it because you don't get it?"

"No. I don't know. I mean look over there." He moved from his bed so he could show her just what he meant.

"Where?"

He moved her head in the right direction. "There – where that blue and yellow are right next to each other. Are there two colors that clash more than those two? And look over there," he again moved her head, "the blue and yellow are swirled together almost into one. What kind of mentally unsound. . . _idiot_ painted that?" He realized he was almost shouting when she looked at him with a worried expression. He stepped away from her, back to his own bed.

"Rowena Ravenclaw."

"What?"

She cleared her throat. "In _Hogwarts: A History_, I read that Rowena Ravenclaw painted the ceiling," she said quietly.

"Wasn't she supposed to be the smart one?" Malfoy flopped down on his back. If it was Hufflepuff, Gryffindor or even Slytherin, he could dismiss it outright. But no, it had to be the smart one.

"Well," she began carefully, "she was the smart one. She was also very artistic and very disturbed by the things she saw in the world."

"What did she see?"

"I don't know."

"It still doesn't make any sense," he said sullenly.

"Maybe it was a reflection of something."

"Like what," he snapped. "What could _that_ possibly represent?" He waved his hand dismissively at the ceiling.

"I don't know – the disintegrating friendship of the founders, the political upheaval of the time, life, love – it could be any number of things." He tilted his head to the side to look at her slightly sad face – she was not giving him the answers he wanted. He wanted to hear her say that the ceiling didn't make any sense, and a bunch of drunken students had painted it.

"I know you like things to make sense Malfoy," she said gently. How did she know that? "But life doesn't work that way."

"It should."

She shrugged, "It should, but it doesn't. We try to impose some order in the face of chaos so that we might make some sense of the world, of our own lives and relationships. But it's just an illusion. Things change, _people_ change. Anything can change Malfoy. Maybe that's what Ravenclaw was trying to portray – the chaos underlying our false sense of order and security."

He didn't know what to say. He supposed she made some sense. And yet she didn't. He looked into her worried eyes, and saw things swirling there that he didn't understand. Even though he had always thought she lived a sheltered life, he realized then, that she understood the world better than he did.

"It will all be okay Malfoy." Granger bit her lip. "I promise. Even in chaos, you can find meaning. It may not make any sense to you, and it may not last, but you will find your place there, but it may take some time." Her eyebrows were knit together. She extended her arm to reach toward him. Unsure of himself, he reached out and lightly took her hand. They must have looked strange – holding hands from adjacent hospital beds.

"And – and I will help you if I can. Do you understand Malfoy?" He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Okay," she said. She released his hand and pushed herself off the bed.

She moved away from him and grabbed her things. "I'll help you move all your stuff out tomorrow, okay? Sleep well Malfoy." She took his hand again and gently squeezed it.

He watched her every movement as she left him in the confusing darkness of the hospital wing.


	5. Paradox

**Chapter Five**

**Paradox**

Malfoy paced up and down the length of the hospital wing. His movements were deliberate and predatory. When was Hermione going to wake up? She needed to wake soon, so they could both leave this place and he could get some sleep. He really hated what this place was doing to him, but leaving without her was simply not an option. He would not allow her to stay in the same room as that deranged sixth-year.

Malfoy glared at the unconscious young man each time he marched past him. Mr Jamison was a bit of a mystery to him. He was a quiet mediocre student with a couple of friends. The part that confused him the most was that the boy never really seemed to have a predilection for the Dark Arts. Nothing about his past behavior suggested anything unusual about the boy. Malfoy really wanted to shake the boy awake and ask him what in Merlin's name he thought he was doing. He was sure that no answer would be satisfactory to him. Nothing could possibly explain why he would attack Hermione.

Professor Granger was generally loved by her students. She was tough, but fair, and even a little fun. Her teaching style reminded Malfoy of Remus Lupin. Malfoy remembered walking into her office once while she and one of her seventh year NEWTS students slaughtered the latest article in _Modern Charms Journal_. Hermione convinced the young woman to write a rebuttal, and he distinctly remembered the look of pride and confidence that Hermione inspired in the girl.

Malfoy could never really inspire those looks in his own students. In all reality, Malfoy was sure that he could inspire hatred from his students much more readily than Hermione could. He could still be a snarky arse after all. And then there was Snape. That man could inspire a veritable revolution against him, but certainly not Hermione.

Hermione had never mentioned Mr Jamison or any problem students. He searched his mind for something that would explain Henry Jamison's actions against Hermione. The conclusion he wanted to find was that Mr Jamison was simply unbalanced – seriously unbalanced, and had lashed out at some random person.

But that didn't necessarily have to be the case. Malfoy knew that if his father instructed him to do such a thing in his sixth year, he would have. Well, maybe after he had gotten over his cowardice, he would have. And he hated himself for it. He hated that he had wished death upon Hermione in his former life. He hated that he was cruel to her and her friends, although, sometimes those idiot friends of hers deserved it, especially Weasley.

Sometimes, Malfoy thought of his life in two distinct stages. Life before that horrible summer, and life after. He _needed_ that distinction. He knew that biases, attitudes and personalities do not change overnight, if at all. Once, he had locked himself in his rooms for a weekend to figure himself out, as they say. In the end, he had found more paradoxes than he was comfortable with. He seriously didn't like the fact that, as a person, he didn't make much sense. How could one person hold so many contradictory feelings? Sometimes at the same time?

When he told Hermione of his most confusing and contradictory findings, she laughed. She _laughed_ and told him that was the way people worked. She was cooking something at her parents' house at the time, and by cooking, he meant utterly destroying the kitchen and all the food involved, so he supposed he could excuse her for not expounding. He always meant to ask her what she meant, but he never did.

But underneath it all, he was still the same human being, as Hermione had once reminded him. It was the one time he had gotten truly angry with her, if only for a few moments.

----------

It was five years since they had left Hogwarts as students, and now, they were back as professors. They were sitting in Hermione's cozy chambers in their comfy nightclothes. It could have been a scene of domestic bliss, but it wasn't.

Crookshanks was pouncing around like a kitten in search of imaginary mice or some other mythical creature. It was the day before the students arrived and Hermione was going over her already perfect lesson plans for the fiftieth time.

"Malfoy, it isn't like you are a new person now or anything. You've obviously changed, drastically, but you are the same human being. You're the same but different, just like everyone else. May the gods help me if I haven't changed since I was sixteen," she said laughing as though nothing could make more sense in the world. It appeared she thought nothing more could ever be said on the subject, and she returned to her notes.

"But why do you have to keep calling me Malfoy? I do have a first name you know." He was thoroughly put out and simply could not understand why she insisted on using the name she once used with malice. He knew he was acting like a petulant child, but he didn't particularly care. Foot-stamping and temper tantrums wouldn't be far away at this point.

She simply shrugged and continued flipping through her notes, "I guess I've always known you as Malfoy. Even when we were first years, you were never Draco, or Draco Malfoy, you were just Malfoy."

Just Malfoy. Merely Malfoy. Only Malfoy. Did he mean nothing to her? Was he really _just_ Malfoy? He sincerely hoped that this was one of the rare instances when she threw words around carelessly. The petulant child was quickly replaced with an angry and very hurt adult.

"So, you think that I'm still the same snotty kid I used to be?" he asked somewhat irritably. She did not seem to pick up on his ire.

"Of course not. I mean, you're not the _saaaame_ snotty kid, but you can't deny that you're still something of a snotty kid, in an adult body of course," she said impishly. Her mischievous grin told him that she was not really taking him seriously. He supposed that she didn't need to. She could almost always neutralize him with that grin of hers. He always thought that it was her way of keeping him from his painful thoughts, and he was generally thankful for it. But not today. Today would be different.

"Is that all you think of me? Just some snotty arse? It must be! Because I'm _just_ a Malfoy," he said venomously. He surprised himself with the malice in his thoughts and voice.

Her eyes were wide with. . . it couldn't be fright, could it? "Malfoy I didn't mean-"

He cut her off. "You think that I'm just like all the other Malfoys out there – bigoted, self-righteous, cruel fuckers. That's it, isn't it? Well, maybe you should start calling me Lucius because I'm just a Malfoy. I can't be your good friend Draco, because I'm _just_ a Malfoy." He knew he was being unreasonable. He knew she didn't feel that way about him, but he really didn't know what else to do with the hurt he was feeling.

"You know I don't think of you that way. How could you say such a thing?" There was a certain hard quality to her voice.

"You just said that I'm still the same person I was before," he shot back. Crookshanks was now watching them with narrowed eyes, his tail swishing menacingly.

"You misunderstood me. I said that you are the same human being, you have the same body and the same brain and everything, but you are a vastly different. . ." she searched for the right word, "_person_. I don't know how to explain it. These new attitudes of yours didn't come out of nowhere; you just hid them before. You were given new information and you changed what you believed. Only a fool wouldn't do what you did. You've. . . grown up." Her expression suggested that this would placate him. She was wrong.

"So all those evil little parts of me are just lying dormant now? Is that what you mean Hermione? Because according to you, they are still a part of me." His eyes blazed with fury. "That's why you make excuses to get away from me and spend time with Potter and Weasley, isn't it?" He spat out the name of the latter. At this moment, he really hated Weasley. "You just can't stand to be around me and my dormant evil, can you?"

She looked up at him now, her expression shocked and saddened. Funny, he was expecting rage. She moved to stand next to him and took his hand. He immediately jerked away from her and regarded her worried expression.

"Is that what this is about? Spending time with you?" She was genuinely concerned. Her little back-up tactic of taking his hand didn't work either. "You know that you are one of my closest friends Malfoy." She looked so sad and for a brief moment, he was sorry that he was the cause of her anguish. "I'm sorry if I haven't been spending enough time with you, but you know how it is, what with getting ready for classes and everything. I would never do anything to hurt you."

He snorted. Never do anything to hurt him. Ha! He was no longer sorry to be causing her pain. Just yesterday, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley had announced their engagement to the wizarding world. Malfoy knew it was coming. Everyone knew it was coming. He thought he had prepared himself, but it had hit him harder than expected.

If she never meant to hurt him, she never would have gotten engaged. To anyone. Except himself of course.

Malfoy's love for Hermione had sort of. . . seeped through his being. He never had any great revelatory moments concerning Hermione. He had grown irreversibly close to Hermione in their seventh year, and he supposed he knew that he would one day love her as no other. But his heartache grew at the same time as his love. It was common knowledge that Hermione and Weasley were disgustingly in love. So much so, that it made him want to vomit at times.

It was a funny thing really; Malfoy loved her with all of his broken, battered and confused heart. He should not be taking his anguish out on the one person who truly cared for him. It was not her fault that he felt more strongly for her than she did for him, but that didn't mean he didn't want to blame her for it.

He let himself slump into a chair by the fireplace and held his head in his hands. The fire crackled and popped. Why was he doing this? Why was he hurting the one he loved most in the world? Why was she doing this to him? She was smart - she had to know how he felt about her. He heard her softly tread toward him and sit at his feet.

"What's going on? There's something you're not telling me." Her voice gently cascaded over him. He wanted to melt into that voice, into her being.

What was going on? What was it that he wasn't telling her? He didn't know anymore.

Malfoy said nothing. The deafening silence settled itself like a brick wall in between them. He didn't want that. Not with her of all people.

Jumbled thoughts bounced through his head – Hermione, his father, his new position as a professor, his undeniable loneliness, tortured bloodied people, Weasley - he swore he could feel the ricochet action. He needed to grab something quickly, but found that he didn't have the energy to do such a thing.

He didn't know what he wanted to do. He wanted to hurt her. Deeply. He wanted to hate her. And yet he didn't. He wanted to rant and scream and break things and scare Hermione and Crookshanks. He also wanted to sit silently and let Hermione believe that his sanity had left the building.

She moved to lean against his leg and rested her head on his knee. Her touch and her gentle voice soothed him in ways he did not understand. "You don't have to tell what's wrong. I'm always here for you. You know that right?"

A strangled noise escaped his throat. She must have taken it as an affirmation.

"Good." A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. "I hate seeing you like this. I just want you to be happy."

Silence. He couldn't possibly tell her what would make him happy. He didn't want her to think he was crazy. And he certainly didn't want to tell her that he would never be happy. He didn't want her pity.

"Would it make you happy if I called you Draco from now on?"

More silence. He never really liked his first name anyway. Who names their kid Draco anyway? Draco-co-co-co-co-co.

"Would it make you happy if I called you Bouncy, the amazing ferret boy?"

"Only if I get to call you Hermy," he smiled. How did she make him smile?

"Okay, so Bouncy is out." She leaned her head back to look at him revealing an expanse of her luscious neck. "You have to help me out here. The only names I can come up with are equally horrendous, and I don't want you to hate me for ever and ever. I mean I could deal with you temporarily hating me and all, but not so much for all time."

"Hmph." What else was there to say? She really had to look away; the sight of her neck made him want to do something impulsive that would no doubt ruin their friendship.

"See, if we hated each other for a little while, I could use some of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products against you. I hear they have some new products that are most exciting. And then we would make up of course, and you could buy me some ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream."

"I thought you were the one who is supposed to be at fault here." He wondered if her neck was as soft as it looked.

"Oh Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy," she sighed, mocking exasperation. "Don't you know that it's always the man's fault in cases such as these? Really, I'm shocked at you. I thought you were a bit more knowledgeable about women."

"Ah, my dear Hermione, but that only works in romantic relationships." Still that neck was torturing him.

"Oh pish posh, there is no such disclaimer to male-female relations of any kind. Besides, why wouldn't you want to buy me ice cream?"

"Why indeed," he said quietly and looked away from her and watched the flames as they licked the firewood.

Her voice changed. "I will call you Draco if you want me to."

"No, it's alright," Malfoy sighed, refusing to force any sort of intimacy upon her. He moved away from her and her neck and walked to the window. A few friendless stars poked through the black of the night sky.

Once again, she moved toward him and took his hand, and intertwined her fingers with his. Why must she keep touching him? Did she _want_ him to push her against a wall and attack that lovely neck of hers?

"Malfoy. . ." she began uneasily, "what brought all this on? Please talk to me. Tell me everything will be alright and you'll be okay."

Nothing would be okay. Nothing would ever be okay. He knew that once she actually married Weasley, he would be less than alright for the rest of his life. Who was he kidding? He had been less than alright since that summer. He was just lucky to have her as a friend.

"Hermione-" What could he say? He didn't want to lie to her. He turned to look at her. Worry lines etched her forehead.

"Everything will not be alright and I may not be okay, but I will live." The quiet strength and conviction in his voice surprised him.

Her chin quivered and tears filled her eyes.

"Just promise me that when you marry Weasley, that you won't forget about me," he said, brushing a few stray hairs from her forehead.

"Oh Malfoy, how could I forget about you?" She wrapped her arms tightly around him and rested her head on his chest. Tentatively, he snaked his arms around her and pulled her closer, reveling in her scent.

"I will see you happy one day," she whispered barely audible. "Really happy, not sad happy, or fake happy, but really and truly happy."

He seriously doubted her.

----------

Mafloy's breath caught in his throat. The doorknob to the hospital wing slowly turned. Malfoy quickly and quietly crouched against the wall and scrambled to get his wand out of his pocket. Perhaps Mr Jamison had an accomplice, and he was coming to finish what was started yesterday.

It seemed an eternity before the door actually opened. Crookshanks darted through the narrow opening and bolted to Hermione's bed. He jumped on her bed and started kneading at Hermione's shoulder, meowing loudly. Hermione groaned and shifted a bit. This seemed to satisfy the mangy cat, and he curled up next to her head.

Whoever let Crookshanks in continued trying to covertly open the door. Malfoy's jaw clenched and he could taste bile. He would have no qualms in destroying anyone sent to harm Hermione.

His eyes darted over the entrance. Malfoy could hear quiet uneven footsteps, but could see no one. Whoever it was briefly paused at Jamison's bed and continued on to Hermione. The intruder's footfalls gave Malfoy a good idea of this person's location. Malfoy readied himself to pounce. Every muscle in his body tensed. He could hear nothing but those footsteps. He focused his entire being on stopping this person from getting to Hermione.

When the intruder stepped in front of Malfoy, he burst away from the wall and attempted to grab this person around the middle. He was somewhat successful; he got a wrist. A distinctly male voice cursed loudly and the invisible man tried to thrash away from him, but Malfoy held fast and quite awkwardly got his arms around the intruder's middle and pushed with as much strength as he possessed. The force of Malfoy's action landed them both on the ground.

Malfoy would later reflect on the fact that it was really quite difficult fighting an invisible person. One had little idea what one was dealing with. Arms and legs appeared from underneath some sort of cloak. The intruder was a squirmy fellow, and Malfoy had a difficult time subduing him. They wrestled on the floor, each fighting for dominance. Malfoy took a fist to the jaw, while his opponent took one to the temple, or what he assumed was the temple on his invisible foe. With much effort, Malfoy finally got the upper hand, and pinned the defeated intruder to the floor.

Rage coursed through him for the second time in twenty-four hours. He had an arm across the intruder's throat and had his wand pointed at his face. "Who are you?" he seethed.

"Is that you Malfoy?"

A disconnected hand reached up to pull the cloak off revealing the face of the intruder.

"Potter?"


	6. Meaning

**Chapter Six**

**Meaning**

"Potter?"

"Jesus Malfoy," came the strangled reply, "I seriously hope you don't welcome everyone, with such, ah, enthusiasm." Potter groaned and eased himself into a sitting position with much difficulty.

The meager light of the hospital wing highlighted various scars on Potter's once boyish face, and Malfoy briefly wondered where he had gotten such markings. Rather gracelessly, Potter eased himself to his feet and limped to Hermione's bedside.

"So how is our Hermione?" Potter asked, turning to Malfoy.

"Er- just a few bruises and a nasty bump on the head. Pomfrey said she will be fine."

Potter sighed with relief, "Glad to hear it." Potter settled into the comfy chair next to Hermione's bed, while Malfoy merely watched him in undisguised confusion.

Malfoy had reason for such confusion. After the defeat of the Dark Lord, Potter had simply disappeared. All manner of rumors surrounded him, each making less sense than the last. The two men had not seen each other in almost five years. Uncomfortable silence filled the space between them and Malfoy shifted his weight from one leg to the other. In his sleep-deprived state, Malfoy could think of nothing to say to Potter. The two were never exactly friendly, but they had once maintained a forced congeniality for the sake of their shared friend.

"Dumbledore was quite stingy in providing any details. Tell me what happened here Malfoy," Potter demanded in tired voice.

Grateful for anything to fill the conversational void, Malfoy plunged forward.

"Well, it happened just after dinner last night, right outside the Great Hall. There were students everywhere. Hermione was talking to a first year about some essay and this kid, Jamison, over there," Malfoy pointed to the restrained boy on the other end of the hospital wing, "Well, he called Hermione a mudblood professor, blamed her for the defeat of the Dark Lord, and hit her in the back with a stunning spell. I don't think she evens knows who attacked her." Malfoy saw a muscle twitch in Potter's jaw at the injustice of such an attack. "Anyway, the spell sent her right into a wall, and she hit her head," he finished lamely.

"I suppose that beating an unconscious boy into the next world might get us into a spot of trouble," Potter said in a tight voice.

Malfoy laughed nervously, "Uh, yeah, Dumbledore already warned me."

"So am I correct in guessing that this boy is a Slytherin?" Potter inquired.

"Uh no, he's actually a Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff? You've _got_ to be kidding me. I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be the quiet little mice of Hogwarts."

"Guess not. The boy also has a muggle father."

"Muggle father. Interesting." Potter stroked his chin in bemused contemplation. The silence once again fell upon them.

Potter looked at him now, with a half-grin gracing his features. "And tell me, just how did this kid end up in the hospital wing covered in what looks like the effects of a rather nasty fist fight?" Potter's eyes flicked over Malfoy, taking in the bruises and blood marring the young professor's face and hands.

"I, well, I uh," Malfoy started awkwardly, "I was near Jamison when it happened, and I, well I hit him." He paused, recalling the brutality with which he attacked the boy. "A lot. And then Snape stunned the boy and levitated them both here."

"Snape huh?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you just stun him in the first place?"

"I guess I wasn't really thinking clearly at the time." Malfoy immediately realized his mistake in admitting such a thing to Potter.

Potter gave a half-snort, half-laugh. "Imagine that, a Malfoy not thinking clearly."

"Cram it, Potter," Malfoy said lightly.

They settled into an awkward silence. Malfoy moved to sit on the bed next to Hermione. Every movement created a ripple of sound that added to the strange inelegance of the situation. When he finally settled himself into the bed, Malfoy vowed not to make a sound.

Although Malfoy didn't like Potter and didn't particularly want him here, he did provide a welcome distraction. He concentrated on Potter in an effort to push aside the distorted thoughts that plagued him tonight. He desperately wanted to ask Potter what had happened in the final confrontation, what he had been doing in the last five years, why he had left the wizarding world, and the like.

Of course, his fascination with Potter came full circle back to Hermione. Although Potter seemed to be the chimera of the wizarding world, Malfoy suspected that he still saw Hermione on occasion. While the Daily Prophet had screamed its frustration in its ignorance of the great Harry Potter's current situation, Hermione had been supremely unconcerned. When Malfoy asked her about Potter, she simply replied that she was sure he was fine and would speak no more about it. More than a little irked and jealous that Hermione would not share the details with him, Malfoy ached to ask Potter if he still saw her. Hermione would disappear without explanation on occasion, and Malfoy sincerely hoped that she visited Potter and not some unnamed new lover. Or was Potter the new lover?

"Does Hermione ever visit you?" Malfoy asked impetuously, forgetting his vow of silence. He had never considered that Potter and Hermione might be an item, and now that his blasted mind had considered that possibility, he simply had to know.

Potter looked up, surprised, "Yeah, she does." Potter turned his attention back to Hermione and gently pushed a bit of hair away from her face.

Malfoy inwardly cursed Potter for answering his question, but making him ask another to find out just what he wanted to know. He hated being in an inferior position.

"So, where might she visit you?" Malfoy asked, as casually as possible.

"At my home." If the smirk on Potter's face was any indication, Malfoy had a feeling that Potter might be playing with him and was deliberately providing as little information as possible.

"And where might that be?" Malfoy attempted to keep his extreme irritation out of his voice.

"Wales."

"Nice place, that."

Malfoy didn't want to acknowledge that Potter had the upper hand, and he didn't want to give Potter any insight about his relationship, or whatever it was he had with Hermione. Although, if Potter and Hermione still saw each other, Potter probably already had quite a bit of insight about Malfoy. Or would Hermione simply not mention him to Potter? Malfoy didn't know which would be worse, Hermione telling Potter something about their friendship, or her finding him unimportant in her life, and never mentioning him to Potter. The answer to that question would express just how much he meant to Hermione, and Malfoy wasn't sure he wanted to know. This roundabout questioning made him tired and Malfoy was nearly ready to give up.

But it was Malfoy's lucky day, and Potter took pity on him, "Yes, my wife and kids enjoy it very much."

Malfoy tried to keep a show of his relief at a minimum, but he was sure Potter noticed anyway.

"That so," Malfoy said, attempting but not succeeding in sounding utterly unaffected.

"Mmm-mm."

Malfoy, rather hoping to keep the small talk going, asked, "And how is your family?"

"Good, my wife is pregnant with our third."

At one time, Malfoy prided himself on his social graces, but it appeared he was becoming negligent, so he could think of nothing else to say but, "Oh, that's. . .nice."

"Word to the wise Malfoy, if you ever have a frighteningly pregnant wife and she asks you if she looks fat – well, first off, make sure you say no, emphatically if possible, and then use the words radiant and glowing to describe her."

"Radiant huh?"

"Radiant," Potter said with the certainty of a man who had made such a mistake.

"What kind of idiot would say his wife looks fat?" Malfoy seriously hoped that Potter would admit to such a mistake. He just thought it would be funny.

Potter chuckled, "Apparently, this kind of idiot." Potter shook his head at his own stupidity and Malfoy openly laughed at him. The happy sound momentarily disturbed the graveness of the hospital wing. With a look that said, "I can't believe I said that," Potter continued, "Do you ever say something that you realize is utter foolishness before it even leaves your mouth?" Malfoy knew exactly what he meant. "I was in the dog house for a week for that comment." They looked at each other, boyish grins alighted their faces.

Potter turned his attention to Crookshanks and patted him on the head. "I see Crookshanks still likes the hospital wing."

"Yeah, he struts around here like he owns the place. I think he knows that Hermione has a position of power now."

"Lousy cat. Do you remember when Hermione turned our hair all different colors when she thought we were insulting her damn cat too much?" It was one of the rare instances the two men had acted together. And it was against a stupid cat.

Malfoy sniffed, "How could I forget? My hair alternated between blue and pink for three days. You had green and yellow hair as I recall."

"You know, sometimes I really think Hermione is too smart for her own good. Remember how she made us apologize to her bloody _cat_ before she would change it back?" They both laughed hardily at this, while Crookshanks regarded them with his beady little eyes.

The grins slowly faded. It wasn't all that funny after all. Their interaction was one of self-conscious awkwardness interspersed with moments of levity. The two had a past together that wasn't all that pleasant. Talking and laughing together was something new to them both. Despite her best efforts, Hermione could never get her three closest friends to get along. Poor Hermione had to carefully divide her time between Weasley/Potter and Malfoy. There was simply too much ill will harbored between the three men – far more than could be easily overcome. Or so Malfoy had thought. Come to think of it, Malfoy's complaints were generally directed at Weasley, and not Potter. Potter was just a part of the Weasley/Potter package. Perhaps Potter wasn't such a bad fellow. Seeing the man's scars and obvious limp was blunt evidence of what Potter had been through

Potter then took up the lost cause that was their conversation.

"What is it that you teach here Malfoy? From what Hermione says, you teach a bit of everything." Potter shifted in his seat and made an admirable show of actually caring about what Malfoy had to say.

"I do. I fill in for people when they want a sabbatical or just a break and whatnot. Sometimes there are overflow classes, and I take those. Mostly the younger years, seeing as how I have no actual expertise in anything," he laughed at himself, and Potter followed.

"Do you want a permanent position?"

"If one were to open up. It's kind of tiring not knowing when I'll have work or not. There was a whole year when there wasn't anything for me. I had to move out and get a _real_ job," he said, grinning.

"A real job?"

"Yeah, Hermione convinced me to work at Flourish and Botts so I could get her a discount on books. Damnable woman and her books. At one point, they threatened to fire me if I bought any more books with my discount."

Potter laughed, "Yeah, Hermione does have a thing about books."

There was nothing more to say on the subject, so Malfoy decided that it was his turn to ask something.

So, er- what is Weasley up to these days?" Malfoy figured he might as well get all his questions answered tonight, or as many questions he had that actually had answers. He had a nasty tendency to ask questions that didn't have any answers.

Potter sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not really sure. He gave up his post at the Ministry for a reserve spot on the British National Quiddich Team, but it didn't work out. He never did say why." He paused a moment. It seemed to Malfoy that Potter was trying to decide if he could trust Malfoy with the information he was about to give. "The last I heard of him, he was drinking his way through the Continent, trying his best to forget about Hermione."

"Oh."

Silent contemplation. And then, Malfoy asked, "Do you think that he'll try to get back together with her?"

"Who knows? I gave up trying to figure out their relationship long ago." He grinned, "I think it was sometime in third year, actually."

"Sexual tension at thirteen huh?"

"Or something like that." Potter let his frustration out, "I swear the two of them have always had the most fucked-up relationship of anyone I have ever known." Potter regarded Malfoy with a quirked eyebrow set in a questioning and unfriendly countenance. "Well, almost."

Malfoy refused to let Potter see his uneasiness. So, Hermione obviously did speak of him to Potter. He seriously doubted that Potter could be that perceptive left to his own devices. Not that he thought his relationship with Hermione was fucked-up; it was just. . . different.

"Are you trying to say something to me Potter?" Malfoy asked, just a little coldly.

"Apparently," Potter sighed, sounding thoroughly unconcerned.

"Well, you better say it then." Malfoy gripped the side of the bed and prepared himself for battle.

Potter, however, took a different tactic. He leaned forward in his chair. The frown, the scars and the lines in his forehead made him look vastly older than his twenty-nine years. "Listen Malfoy, I'm not trying to start anything with you, and even you can't deny that the two of you have a genuinely strange. . . whatever it is you have. You know everything about each other, and yet, you know _nothing_ about each other. You treat each other like a devoted couple, but Hermione claims there is nothing romantic going on. You spent every waking moment in each other's company, and yet you desert each other on occasion."

"I don't desert her Potter." Malfoy defended himself. He really didn't want to go down this road.

"Then what is it that you do?" Potter shot back.

"Listen, I'm not the one who does the deserting, alright," Malfoy said, sufficiently riled. How dare anyone question him like this? He raged internally. And then he realized just what he said. And to Potter of all people.

Potter's face changed. His expression became totally unreadable. Malfoy really wished he could comprehend people better. Malfoy raised himself off the creaky bed, walked a few steps away and turned his back to Potter. This was getting a little weird. He had no intention whatsoever of having a heart to heart with Potter. They were men. Men didn't do that sort of thing. Merlin, he could barely do that sort of thing with Hermione.

"Listen Malfoy, you have to understand," Potter started uneasily, "Hermione is my best friend too, and I just want the best for her. And I'm not really sure that you are the best thing for her. I don't want you messing with her. She deserves better than that."

"I do not mess with her," Malfoy seethed, turning to face Potter. He would _never_ mess with her.

"Oh really," Potter asked, in an imperious tone Malfoy could have done without.

"Yeah really, you stupid arse." Malfoy's voice got a bit louder.

"That's not how Hermione sees it."

Malfoy's heart plummeted and his rather flimsy world shattered. Hermione thought he "messed" with her. If he were to be brutally honest with himself, he would admit that he did indeed mess with people sometimes, especially if Weasley was involved. But he would never do such a thing to Hermione; he loved her far too much to do such a thing.

"I er- really don't want to talk to you about this," Potter said.

"Yes, the feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you," Malfoy said dryly, desperately trying to conceal how much Potter's statement had disturbed him. He really didn't want this. This night had screwed with him enough. Malfoy turned to face Potter, but didn't look at him. He was surprised to see his own unease mirrored in Potter. Neither man met the other's eye; both shifted their bodies and twisted their hands.

Potter regained his composure faster than Malfoy though possible. "Look, what is Hermione to you? What does she mean to you?"

Everything. Hermione was everything to Maflfoy. Unfortunately, he knew she didn't feel the same. Paradoxically, he felt nothing at the moment. He was drained from his own version of "This is Your Life" he felt the need to play in his head tonight. Idiot that he was anyway.

Potter watched him intently and Malfoy finally met his gaze.

"I-" Malfoy stopped. Still fully shocked from Potter's revelation, Malfoy simply lifted his gaze to that chaotic ceiling, hoping to find something, anything.

He didn't want to tell Potter what Hermione meant to him, but he could empathize with Potter's concern for Hermione. They both wanted the very best for her. They both wanted her happiness.

But Malfoy wanted a bigger share of her life. Thinking of her and what they had was making him crazy. He generally tried not to think too hard on what they had, but often did anyway. He guessed that seeing her attacked and lying unconscious and covered in bruises did strange things to him. It all culminated in this night. He didn't want to admit it, but Potter's questioning made him realize that perhaps Hermione was as confused as he was. He barely let the thought cross his mind because it could only bring disappointment, but what if he did mean more to her than he thought he did. He quickly buried that thought beneath the myriad of others.

Neither party really understood what the other wanted. This had to be the case if Hermione thought he was toying with her. He _had_ to make a change. He did not want her to experience the anguish he felt.

"I don't know what to do," Malfoy said honestly. Potter once again started shifting in his chair.

"Can't help you there mate." Potter cleared his throat signifying the end of their oh-so-strange discussion. Malfoy didn't know what he expected from Potter, but it certainly wasn't that. "I better be going. Sun will be up in a couple of hours – I don't want any early birds to catch me." Potter stood up and rummaged in his cloak. He produced a sealed bit of parchment and set it by Hermione's bedside. "Will you make sure that Hermione gets that?"

Malfoy nodded dumbly.

"Uh, you know, maybe you and Hermione would like to visit over the Easter holiday. Luna," Potter stopped for a moment, obviously considering his options, "Luna and I would really like to see the two of you."

Again, Malfoy just nodded as Potter limped his way out of the hospital wing. He stood for a moment at Jamison's bed, his back facing Malfoy.

"You know I don't claim to know a thing about women. I just as well called my beautifully pregnant wife fat, but you might want to try talking to her," Potter said, intently watching Malfoy for a brief moment.

The two men looked at each other and nodded in some kind of salutation. And then Potter was gone.

Malfoy dragged himself to the bed next to Hermione. He felt that he should think about what had happened tonight and the things that were all jumbled inside his head, but he really didn't want to. He stared at the ceiling for a bit. Perhaps he had grown up – that ceiling didn't make him feel anything at all. He decided that he might sleep for awhile.

The blaring garishness of the sun woke him. The hospital wing looked vastly different in the daytime. He stretched his arms and legs out and turned on his side to face Hermione. She was still asleep, with Crookshanks' head resting on her shoulder. Malfoy had only gotten a couple hours of sleep, but he felt infinitely better. The thoughts, memories, and his conversation with Potter had faded. He felt them far less intensely now. But as it was with most unpleasant life-changing experiences, remnants remained, tucked in the corners of his consciousness, and he would have to face them eventually.

Hermione started to stir. He immediately moved to her bedside and looked down at her. She opened her eyes and once they focused on him, she smiled.

"Hi," she said airily.

"Hi," he whispered.


	7. Agitate

**Chapter Seven**

**Agitation **

Hermione tried focusing her eyes and pushed her head back into her pillow in order to see Malfoy a bit better. Her bleary eyes widened and she reached up to gingerly touch his face. Involuntarily, he winced from the contact. He told himself it was because she had touched his sore bruises, but that wasn't the case.

"What happened to you?" she asked, her speech somewhat slurred. He gave her a sad smile and grasped her soft hand - here she was in the hospital wing, and her concern was directed at him. That in itself should have gratified him, but it didn't.

He cleared his throat and shook his head, "It doesn't matter. How are you feeling?"

As though she was trying to figure out just how she felt, a thoughtful expression graced her sleepy face. She was heartbreakingly adorable, her cute expression blemished with ugly brown and black bruises.

"My head hurts," she whined with a cute little pout on her face. It took most of his dubious control to keep himself from laughing. She looked like a little child that just figured out she was in pain, and didn't quite know what to do about it.

"I'm not surprised," Malfoy smiled.

"What happened?" Her sleepy voice sounded a little too sultry for Malfoy's liking. Maybe he was imagining things. Luckily for him, Crookshanks decided that he needed to make his presence known and none too discreetly swished his tail in Hermione's face. His tail caught a bit of her open mouth and she sputtered a bit and brushed the irritant from her face. This time, his control broke and he did laugh at her.

"Crookshanks!" she exclaimed and in an inexplicably silly and very uncomfortable move for both cat and human, Hermione dragged the animal to rest on her breasts and hugged him tightly. Crookshanks made a few indistinct noises to display his discomfort, but settled against her body. The cat looked at Malfoy and almost seemed to sigh. Malfoy really wondered about Crookshanks sometimes; he didn't care what anyone said, it was strange to have a cat so attuned to his mistress, half-kneazle or not.

Drunk. She was acting like she was drunk. She only need giggle uncontrollably and sway a bit to confirm his suspicions. He liked drunk Hermione. Drunk Hermione was less. . . no more. . ._more_. . . than sober Hermione.

Madame Pomfrey bustled over in her quick short steps. "What is it with this wretched cat?" she asked and brusquely yanked the animal off Hermione and pitched him on the floor. It seemed to Malfoy that Madame Pomfrey hoped the fall would destroy the poor animal. However, Crookshanks was made of tougher stuff than most cats and he trotted out of the hospital wing with the assurance of an animal who knew his human would be just fine.

"Oh Crookshanks," Hermione moaned.

Madame Pomfrey handed her a potion and ordered her to drink. Her expression and eyes cleared. Drunk Hermione was no more. Pity.

"Hermione, I'm going to cast a diagnostic spell. Just be still for a few moments, it won't hurt a bit," Madame Pomfrey said, in an alarmingly gentle voice.

Hermione clasped her hands over her belly and closed her eyes as Madame Pomfrey cast the spell. The blue light swirled around her and enveloped her entire being. Malfoy thought he could see the light moving in and out of her skin. If he were to be totally honest with himself, he would admit to being jealous of that light, but he wasn't, so he didn't.

Hermione's lips parted and she looked as though she was blissfully dissolving into another dimension surrounded by the cool blue light of the diagnostic spell. Malfoy resisted the urge to grab onto her to keep her firmly in this world. With him. He cleared his throat and looked away to break the trance he had sunk into. He was acting like a child. That could not be tolerated. Perhaps he didn't get as much sleep as he thought he did. Yes, that was it, Malfoy assured himself.

The blue light dissipated and Madame Pomfrey smiled down at her patient. "You are free to go Hermione. I want you to take this potion twice today and twice tomorrow. You are to rest for the next couple of days, and Albus has been so kind as to take your classes for the next two days." She gave Hermione a little bottle of yellow potion.

"Oh, but Poppy, the next few lessons are critical for the students. I really think I should be there. Really, I feel fine." Although Hermione had mellowed over the years, she still demanded the very best from herself concerning her work. Malfoy sighed. Where did this woman get her insane work ethic? He certainly would have no problem skiving off work a couple of days.

In an effort to show Madame Pomfrey how well she was, Hermione tried sitting up, but it seemed a bout of dizziness overcame her, and she fell back into her pillow.

"That is obviously not an option Hermione. I will not allow it. I want you to sit up for a few moments before you leave. I'm sure Professor Malfoy would be more than happy to assist you and escort you to your rooms." She said the last bit with a very knowing and smug look. And Madame Pomfrey left them to attend to Mr Jamison.

"C'mon Hermione, sit up," Malfoy slid an arm underneath her shoulder to move her to a sitting position. She seemed to resist him a bit, but he got her sitting up without much trouble. He sat next to her on the bed. He could see she was still upset about missing her classes. In his so very humble opinion, she was a bit too devoted to her students. Most unlike himself.

Malfoy reached for the short letter Potter left her. "Here, Potter came here last night and left this for you." He didn't know what else to say.

"Harry was here?" she asked, sounding disappointed she missed him.

Hermione took it and read it quickly. A slight frown gripped her lips. She hastily stuffed the parchment into the pocket of her robe. They sat there, not looking at each other. Hermione descended into what looked like a right bad mood. Malfoy had to take action. Strangely, he liked it when she got like this. Over the years, he had learned to deal with her moods and he could almost always make her laugh within a few minutes. At the very least, he was good for something.

"Now Hermione," Malfoy said playfully, "there's no need to pout about missing a couple of days." He felt it best if he didn't mention Potter's letter.

"I'm not pouting," she said sullenly.

"Sure you are," he said in far too cheery tone. "You forget, my dear that I can always tell when you are in a bad mood. And we both know that I am more than capable of pulling you out of one." All this was said with a ridiculously goofy grin on his face.

"Oh really?" she questioned, the faint beginnings of a grin on her face.

"Oh Hermione," he sighed dramatically, "how easily you forget." He shook his head. "Sometimes I really can't believe you. See, I haven't even put my plan into action and already, you're smiling. And believe me, my plan was devious and cunning and it ensured complete hilarity on both our parts."

"So what did the plan entail?" she asked playing along. He was gratified to see her fully smiling.

"Well, the original plan actually involved Crookshanks, but as he has so cowardly disappeared, I have had to modify the plan a bit."

"Crookshanks huh?" Hermione knew how the game worked. Malfoy would produce an absurd scenario of some sort and she would humor him, which in turn, would make her smile and laugh, which made him content, if not actually happy. It was a very odd circular way of going about things, but it worked for them. This is how their relationship worked – they often moved around subjects without directly addressing them.

"Yes, the old boy can be quite the little scamp when he wants to be. But as I said, he backed out, so I devised an ever better plan." He made sure to flail his arms and inflect his voice at the right times. She seemed to enjoy it.

"So what's the new plan?"

"Well, I really can't say, but it involved copious amounts of stinksap."

"Was the plan to dump a bunch of stinksap on me, or maybe Snape, or maybe some poor unsuspecting student?"

Placing his hand over his heart and mocking mortal shock, he said, "Hermione, please. We are adults. I'm much more creative than that. Do you actually think that I would stoop to something as juvenile as dumping a bunch of stinksap on Snape's head?"

"Yes," she giggled.

He pulled an expression that could only be described as self-depreciating defeat, he sighed, "Well then, you would be right."

She laughed and pulled him into a quick hug. He really loved it when she did things like this. He liked feeling her against him, but he never really knew what she meant with those innocuous touches. She released him from her hold and leaned back.

"So, are you going to tell me how I ended up here?" There was no anger in her voice, no concern. It sounded like she was just asking as a matter of academic curiosity, and not as a matter of personal violent involvement.

_Damnit_ all to Hades! He had just pulled her out of a bad mood. He really didn't want to put her in another one. How could she change direction so quickly? He figured it must be a female thing. Let the poor ignorant male believe that all is right with the world, and then tackle him, just when he lowered his defenses. All women must belong to some sort of secret society in which they discussed how to completely befuddle the men in their lives. Really, it was the only possible explanation.

He cleared his throat. How to approach this? "Er, do you remember anything?" Okay, so he had no real idea of how to approach this. Was there no secret society for men to deal with women? Malfoy would have to look into it.

"I remember someone calling me a mudblood and something about the Dark Lord, and then everything was black.

"Well, that is pretty much everything I guess. You hit the wall pretty hard." He didn't want to discuss Mr Jamison's part in the ordeal, as he really didn't know how Hermione would take it. In his own school days, he had called Hermione a mudblood when he wanted to inflict the most shameful pain possible, and as a subconscious means of coveting her attention. But by fifth or sixth year, he could barely get her to turn her head when he used that particular moniker. But this was different. She probably hadn't been called a mudblood since their own school days.

"Who." It was a statement, not a question. He knew he couldn't evade the question any longer.

"Henry Jamison."

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "You're _kidding_ me."

He shook his head, "'Fraid not."

She looked confused. Her expression was thoughtful and she turned her gaze to Mr Jamison's unconscious form.

She pointed to the bed where he lay. "Is that him?"

"Er, yeah."

He could see it in her face that she was trying to figure out the mystery that was Jamison. Her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed, and she chewed on her lip.

"What happened to him?" She turned to face Malfoy again. His bruises and cuts suddenly made sense to her. "What happened to you?" Her voice was frighteningly quiet.

"Hermione-" What could he say? I tried beating a boy to death because he hurt you. No, that would not do at all. His body stiffened at the memory and he shifted uncomfortably. She would not understand his actions and she would most certainly not condone them. Why hadn't he thought of that? He had thought of just about every other imaginable thing last night, but he couldn't have thought of things that might be useful and relevant. Oh no. He really needed to get out of his head and live in the real world once in awhile.

"Malfoy," her voice was dangerous, "what did you do?" He found it interesting that she asked him what he had done, and not what Mister fucking Jamison had done.

"What did _I_ do?" A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "That's not the question Hermione. The question is what _he_ did. To you."

"Yes," she conceded, "but it isn't the only question. What did _you_ do to _him_? Did you do that to him?" She pointed to the unconscious boy. How dare she question his motives? That boy tried to take his whole world away by taking Hermione away. His reaction was instinctive. In hindsight, he hadn't acted rationally, but how could anyone be expected to act rationally in such a situation? What else could she want from him? This strengthened his resolve. They would leave here. Now.

"We're not having this discussion here. C'mon, I'll take you to your rooms." His voice was hard as he roughly pulled the covers off her. He thrust her clothes at her, "Here, get dressed and let's get the bloody hell out of here."

He could see her confusion. His sudden mood change shocked her. Never had he treated her in such a way before. This was not good. He was breaking loose. He mistakenly thought that he had effectively put the events and thoughts of last night behind him. He must maintain control.

He turned his back as she dressed in an effort to get himself under control. The rustle of her un-dressing and then dressing sent waves of disturbance through him. He was angry with her for questioning him in such a manner. The painful memories and discussions he experienced last night slammed into him and congealed into a perplexing globbish mass within his poor mind. One person could only be expected to take so much.

Taken individually, he could handle them, but taken together, well, that was a beast of a different sort altogether. In isolation, each thought and memory could make at least some sense. He found that he could rationalize many things. But together they pointed to a life without reason and without meaning. Each event, each memory was disconnected from all the others, and yet they were bound by some interminable invisible fastening. The only thing that was clear in his life up to this point was pain and confusion. Neither of which contained any meaning.

But blessedly, that gruesome raging anger that accompanied his pain and confusion, just happily simmered beneath the surface, not yet ready to explode.

He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. He could wait until he got Hermione back to her rooms, and then he could explode in whatever manner he found appropriate when that sacred time arrived. Yes, he could wait, but they needed to get out of here quickly. He needed to get away from her quickly.

He started walking toward the door in an effort to get them out of there and duck Hermione's questions. He heard her hurried footsteps behind him.

"Malfoy-" There was a pleading quality to her voice. He quickened his pace. He would be safe from his horribly beautiful little witch once outside the hospital wing. She would not start anything around the students.

Malfoy calmed significantly when the door to the hospital wing slammed behind them. He slowed a bit as Hermione was having difficulty keeping pace with him and he took her arm to support her, but he adamantly refused to look at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her sidelong glances. She said nothing, but tightened her grip on his arm.

The rhythm of their synchronized steps brought his agitation to a manageable level. Each step took a little of whatever the fucking hell it was he felt and placed it on the floor. A trail of malaise was left behind him.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Lower. Calmer. Softer. Clack. Clack. Clack.

Fleeing the chaos of the hospital wing into the relative normalcy of the castle soothed him. Childishly, he thought if he could physically leave the hospital wing, he could leave everything that had happened there behind him as well. But, for the moment, that thought served his purposes.

Unfortunately for Malfoy and his plan to get her to her chambers as quickly as possible, it was breakfast time and students milled around everywhere, which only served to increase his irritation. He was no longer in danger of having a serious meltdown, but that didn't mean he was in good spirits.

"P'fessor Granger, P'fessor Granger!" An unreasonably small first year boy ran to his favorite professor, his eyes wide with something. Malfoy didn't know and he didn't care.

"Are you okay? I saw what happened yesterday and we were all so worried in Ravenclaw yesterday. Some of the fourth years had this theory that Henry was in love with you and he hit you with that spell because he was jealous. But the seventh years said that was dumb, and he was mad because you gave him a bad mark. Is that true P'fessor Granger?" This boy reminded Malfoy of an especially hyperactive chipmunk. It could make a person tired just watching this aberration of nature. Malfoy discreetly tugged on her arm, but she would not have it.

"Oh, Sean, I know you are far too smart to believe such things." Hermione smiled down at the boy and he beamed at her. "And I thank you so much for your concern. I will not be in class for a few days, but I will see you on Monday, okay."

"Okay, P'fessor Granger. I'm so glad that you are out of the hospital wing. It was great P'fessor Granger; you should have heard the cheers at breakfast when the Headmaster said that you would be alright. We will miss you so much." For the sake of all that was holy, it was just going to be two days. "But the Headmaster said that he would be taking your classes, but you know, it just won't be the same-"

"O'Connell, don't you have class you need to be getting to?" Malfoy barked. The boy cowered and ran down the hallway. Hermione looked at him questioningly, but said nothing. Why she had to indulge these freakish little bastards was beyond his powers of comprehension. He failed to take notice of his sudden harsh attitude change regarding the students. Generally, he would have found such a display amusing, but he could not see that today, so they continued on their way.

Several more students and professors stopped them in the hallways. They were all so happy that she was well and they were so shocked and was she sure she was completely well and on and on.

"Oh Hermione," said a voice behind them. Yet again, Malfoy tried to keep her from turning, but it was little use. It only served in annoying Hermione.

A very distraught Professor McGonagall wrapped her arms around her colleague and hugged her tightly, effectively pulling Hermione out of Malfoy's grasp. Malfoy watched the usually stern older woman pull away from Hermione, her exquisite relief evident in the tears streaming down her wrinkled face. The sight saddened Malfoy. He had never seen Professor McGonagall so visibly upset before.

She choked back a delicate sob and straightened Hermione's robes and hair, "Oh, we shall have to do something about those bruises."

Hermione grasped the other woman's arms and softly said, "It's okay Minerva. I'm okay. I'll be all back to normal in a couple of days."

"Oh I know." The tears renewed themselves. "I was just so worried. And Albus, cruel man that he is, wouldn't let anyone see you yesterday." She swallowed and looked at Malfoy. He promptly looked away. "Do take care dear. I will stop by this afternoon and we'll have tea." Hermione nodded in a smiling confirmation and gave her another quick hug.

Dumbledore wouldn't let anyone see her. Except him. Because he was her _best_ friend. Her _best_ friend. True, he had been rather adamant about staying with her, but he sincerely doubted that McGonagall would be anything less. The mounting irritation left him and he was left with shame. He was her _best_ friend. And he had been so callous with her. For Merlin's sake, she had just spent the night in the hospital wing. How could he be so selfish? She could have been seriously hurt, and he had snapped at her. He would have to apologize to her. Maybe tomorrow.

He was tired. Having one's mood vacillate between rage, happiness, sadness and plain old irritation within the space of an hour was tiring. When Hermione acted this way, he asked her if she took her premenstrual potion. He had only been thick enough to ask her that once, but still, the subtext was there. Once again, they restarted their journey. Their quiet footsteps led them to her rooms.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Tired. Beaten. Defeated. Clack. Clack. Clack.

They stopped at the suit of armor that guarded her door. "Strange." He uttered the password. Hermione never did tell him why she picked that particular word. Strange. The suit of armor glided aside and he pulled her inside.

"Er- here we are. I'll uh, I'll leave you. You should get some more sleep."

"Malfoy, don't do this." Her voice was also tired. Her expression sadly frustrated. "I'm not going to let you keep turning away from me."

"I don't turn away from you." Must get away.

"Yes you do. You do it all the time. You're doing it now."

"Please Hermione. Like you never do the same to me," Malfoy said defensively. He shouldn't have said that. He should have evaded the question and mentioned something about the time.

She thought for a moment. "Maybe I do, but it has to stop. We can't continue on like this."

"Listen Hermione, I have class," he looked at his watch to demonstrate his point, "ten minutes ago. I really have to go." He didn't want to start this now, whatever the bloody hell _this_ was.

She rather forcefully took his cheek and forced him to look down at her. She was determined. And sad. He could see that.

"I'm not going to let us keep doing this. We are not going to escape from each other this time."

Her determination was a little frightening. "I gotta go. I'll see you later, okay." He turned to leave her.

"I know what you did to him," Hermione said. Malfoy stopped. "You can be so transparent sometimes." Malfoy felt her hand on his back. Its warm weight just rested there, giving him nothing, and expecting nothing from him.

"I have class." He pulled away and left her.

So he was transparent, was he? The agitation slowly started to grow again. It began in his gut and he could feel its dirty roots weave outward throughout his body and plant itself firmly in his being. And despite his best efforts, he could not stop it.

He hurriedly walked to his class.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Growing. Invasion. Infestation. Clack. Clack. Clack.


	8. Penance

**Chapter Eight**

**Penance**

The next several days were little more than a blur for Malfoy. He slept far more than was necessary, ate automatically, taught robotically and drank excessively. The only thing he recalled from that time was a near constant headache. He was, as they say, in a complete daze, and he found the experience nominally gratifying. He found he liked the haze. Of course, he already knew that, from past experience. The alcohol clouded everything to a manageable point. Memories, anguish and sorrow were lessened and hazy. Fake, induced happiness was better than real misery, wasn't it?

Thinking was highly overrated anyway. It usually only brought him trouble. Free of his overzealous contemplation, the drunken old men at the Hog's Head were far more interesting than he could have previously imagined. Who knew that men who spent the majority of their lives at a pub would have so many riveting anecdotes? He would not admit it to himself, but this emptiness in his head was just as miserable as the jumbled thoughts he usually entertained.

Malfoy decided that avoidance was a beautiful beautiful thing, and it could really only bring him abject joy in the end. Didn't they say that ignorance was bliss? Hermione once told him in response to that little quip that it was a wonder there wasn't a higher percentage of happy people in the world if that were indeed true. Stupid Hermione. What did she know anyway? Aside from a few obscure charms and some curious, but totally useless historical facts, she didn't know all that much.

Hermione. He meant to stop and see her. He really did, but he always found some odd reason not to. She was surrounded by well-wishers and people just stopping to say hello. Malfoy never knew that many people held Hermione near and dear to their hearts. It didn't matter; it gave him the perfect excuse to stay away. He heard McGonagall rarely left her side. McGonagall was almost as protective of Hermione as Malfoy was.

As for Henry Jamison, it appeared the boy suffered from some mental condition. He claimed he heard voices in his head that told him to attack Hermione. It was determined that the boy was not under the Imperius Curse or any other nefarious charm or potion. Malfoy wasn't so sure that was indeed the case. He supposed that it was easier to face the fact that he had pummeled an innately evil boy rather than a mentally ill boy. Could the world ever be black and white for him again?

The boy was currently staying at St. Mungo's where healers decided how best to manage his schizophrenia. He would finish his schooling at Beauxbatons, as Hogwarts was no longer considered safe for the disturbed boy. The students did not understand his condition, and several had vowed to take violent action against him when he returned.

While guzzling copious amounts of coffee in the staff room in an attempt to dispel his hangover, Malfoy heard that Jamison had apologized to Hermione. Why Dumbledore had let Jamison in the same room as Hermione made Malfoy seriously doubt the old man's sanity. From Snape's account, the boy was a slobbering weeping mass, and Hermione had wrapped her arms around him and told him that it was alright, it wasn't his fault. Her actions disgusted Malfoy, mental illness or no. Not Jamison's fault. Please.

He had also seen Weasley slink into the castle, presumably to see Hermione. Rather than enraging him, as Weasley's presence was wont to do, Malfoy merely resolved to drink even more that night. In his mind, there was really nothing else to do. He let his moment with Hermione pass the day he brought her to her rooms from the hospital wing. It was best not to think of such things

He imagined Weasley and Hermione were back together at this point. Their relationship was famous for its on-again, off-again status. Hermione would always take Weasley back when he promised that this time, things would be different. She told Malfoy after their last break-up a little less than a year ago that it would be the last; she would never be with Weasley again, but Hermione had said that on more than one occasion.

_She wept into his shoulder as he held her tightly. Usually, she would not let him hold her so close. It was the first time she had ever openly cried in front of him. The sight made him want to cry._

"_Shhh, it's okay love. It will all be alright. You'll see." He placed a kiss on the top of her head. He assumed she was so devastated because she lost the love of her life and he absolutely refused to think about how that made him feel. _

"_No," she choked, burying her face in his chest, "you don't understand. You don't understand, it will never be okay."_

"_Yes it will," he said with quiet firmness. He shifted to pull her closer to him; he couldn't seem to get her body close enough to his. _

Malfoy sincerely hoped that Weasley would treat her better this time around. She deserved so much more than Weasley could give her. Malfoy didn't know the particulars of that relationship, as Hermione never really told him anything, but Malfoy was sure the fault lay entirely with Weasley. His heart ached dully as he pictured them together again, but it didn't matter when he could do nothing about it and there was drink to be had.

Malfoy had resolutely decided that all life's answers could be found at the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey. Hope was a thing of the past. He would never have her and things would never be the same between them. Really, everything had worked out for the best. Except for those damn headaches.

Currently, he was sprawled all over his bed, fully clothed. The sun shone on his face seeming to berate him his idleness. He supposed it was somewhere around noon. He'd gotten home at seven this morning. Thankfully, it was Saturday and he didn't have any classes or duties to attend to.

Head: hurt; mouth: dry; stomach – oh gods.

Mafloy stumbled to the bathroom and emptied his stomach of its contents. He slid to the cool tile floor of his bathroom and let his body slump against the wall. He made quite a lovely picture really – face smashed against the wall, mouth hanging obscenely open, hair sticking up, and limbs uncomfortably flung about.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he remembered was hitting the floor with a thud. He heard someone snorting in surprise, but refused to acknowledge that it was himself. Carefully, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He might think about getting up in just a little bit. Doing just about anything at all seemed too much. He pulled a hand across his face – his mind was blank, but unintelligible whispers skittered across his skull and tried to awaken him. Malfoy did not wish to hear them.

Hangovers sucked. The wizarding world had spells to clean your home, potions to cure disease and mend bones, but nothing to take away the misery one inflicted on oneself from a night of drinking. He imagined there must be some sort of conspiracy formulated by the powers that be to keep good hangover remedies unavailable to the general wizarding community. Fucking bastards.

He eased himself off the floor, grunting with the difficulty it imposed on his sluggish body and aching head. He propped his arms on either side of his sink in an effort to steady himself. The mirror reflected his horrible self back at him. His hair was shaggy and terribly messy. The bruises and cuts had completely healed, but he had a new bump on his forehead from hitting the floor moments earlier, dark circles encompassed his dull eyes and he hadn't shaved in days. All in all, he looked like hell.

Malfoy examined himself. His features were a bit too sharp and pointed to be considered truly handsome. His departed mother once told him that he would grow into his features to become a truly striking young man. It seemed that his face simply decided that it would rather not do such a thing. In his teenage years, a cousin of his told him that he was cute in an ugly sort of way. She always was a bit of a cunt anyway. Turning his head to the side, he admitted to himself that there was something decidedly rodent-like in his face. He never would have considered it were it not for that fucking Moody turning him into a ferret so many years ago.

He focused on his eyes. There was nothing there. Nothing. The emptiness inside reflected out through his dead eyes. He searched the dull irises, trying to find something, anything. How did he end up like this? As a child, and even in days as a Hogwarts student, he never imagined he would end up like this. The boy he had been was nothing like the man he had become. The arrogance and conceit were still there, but to a barely discernable degree. He was unsure of himself and his place in the world. He produced a façade of self-confidence, but it wasn't real. He was just a right old fraud. His life was backwards – teenagers were supposed to be awkward, and adults self-assured.

He bent his head and looked at his filthy sink. The house-elves were getting delinquent in cleaning his chambers. Focusing on some dried toothpaste, he decided it was time to quit drinking. He knew he had something of an addictive personality. It was a time in his life he generally tried to forget.

After they had left Hogwarts, Hermione disappeared for long periods of time with Weasley and Potter. Malfoy was not invited. He pleaded with Hermione. He begged her. He needed to be near her; she was his center – the only real person in his life. His seventh year was unlike any other time he experienced at Hogwarts. He was the outsider – his own housemates wanted little to do with him, and the students of other Houses regarded him with barely veiled disgust. But Hermione was there for him, as she said she would be.

Hermione and Malfoy made fun of each other, they laughed and studied together, and she seemed to have an innate ability to get him out of his head. And she never judged him. He knew that if he were in her place, he could not have been so charitable. He didn't know precisely when she started to mean so much to him. He just knew that when she left him after seventh year, everything was lost. He lost his best, his only friend.

And he didn't know just how or when it was that he changed. He just knew that he was different. Things were different. The world itself was different. He was something like a small child, fascinated by people and things he was seeing for the first time. The world truly was altered when viewed through a different set of eyes.

"_Hermione please, you know I'm not the same as I was."_

"_I know, it's just," she looked away from him, "it just isn't my decision. I'm so sorry." Her face was twisted in some sort of anguish – he didn't know why – she was the one leaving him. She had friends and family to rely on – he obviously didn't._

"_What am I supposed to do?" He knew there was desperation in his voice._

_She hugged him tightly. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but didn't. "I'm sure you'll find something."_

"_Hermione-"_

"_I have to go. We'll still see each other, and I'll write often. I am sorry." And she was gone._

Hermione wrote him regular letters, telling him of the mostly inconsequential things in her life, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't that he _needed_ her per say, but she made him. . .real. And if he wasn't real, there was really only one other option, and he simply couldn't stand to think of himself as fake. At the time, he couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was fake. He wanted lines and boundaries that would tell him his place, but he couldn't seem to find them. Hermione had grown to revel in the gray areas of life, while Malfoy ached for the black and white. Perhaps it was a remnant of his father's world that could not consider anything that didn't fit into some sort of binary thinking. Change does not happen over night after all.

He spent a year wandering, finding odd jobs and then quickly moving on. His world had no center, no place to be. He was lost – he did not belong in his father's world, and he was not welcomed into Hermione's world. The world was new and strange to him, but that didn't mean he knew what to do with it. With nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do, Malfoy retreated into various "parlors" of Knockturn Alley that served an assortment of illegal substances and potions. When he indulged, he could almost forget about her, and the dozens of tortured deaths he could have stopped, but didn't. It didn't matter that he couldn't understand the world. It just didn't seem to matter when he was under the influence of some sort of potion or substance.

He did try to find comfort and kinship in the other people he met in these places. As he found often happened, when people were not properly themselves, they bonded almost instantly to other people, but when a high dissipated, these same people would look at each other with doubt and suspicion, and wondered if perhaps their new best friend might have any little drug they might want to share. Soul mates were found and lost in an evening. People would speak of the deepest subjects in the night, but could remember nothing of what was said the next morning. Malfoy had heard the same few conversations re-hashed dozens of times.

Malfoy, therefore, separated himself from others. He concentrated on the brilliant visuals the drugs produced in the swirling forms and colors. He also found he could open his mind to all sorts of possibilities. It would very suddenly not matter to him that the world was not black and white, and he didn't have a fixed place in it. He could embrace emptiness and oneness, meaning and triviality. But as it was with any drug, he had to come down, and he would sink once again into endless miserable world peopled with tormented ghosts, until he could raise enough money for his next hit.

Malfoy ran across his father in one of these dingy parlors. He had not seen him since he left on Platform 9 3/4 for his seventh year.

"_Well, well, well, what have we here?" a smooth voice said. "Why it's my own flesh and blood." Malfoy tired to focus his drugged eyes on the man who dared approach him in such a state. He rarely spoke to anyone these days. When he realized it was Lucius, he found he wasn't afraid. His father would kill him and that would be it. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be? Mlafoy just hoped it wouldn't be too painful. The two other men with Lucius stood to the side detachedly watching the father-son reunion._

"_Hello Lucius," he said, hoping he didn't sound too wasted. He desperately tried to keep his head from flopping about._

"_Hello Draco." His father circled around his table in a rather predatory manner. "Honestly boy, you have outdone yourself." He tapped his cane on the floor as he walked. Malfoy was having a hard time following him._

"_I really didn't think you could bring anymore disgrace upon yourself, but here you are." His tone was frighteningly conversational. Malfoy could only glare as best he could._

"_Just get on, jus'. . . just get on with it Lucius," Malfoy stuttered and slurred. It was due more to the drug than to his fear. _

_Lucius laughed his slimy little laugh. "Get on with what my dear son? Are you hoping I'll dispose of you? Ah, I can see you do." Lucius laughed again. "I think not. I can see you belong here, pining after your little mudblood. How is she these days anyway?"_

_Malfoy stumbled out of his chair and clumsily lunged for his father. _

"_You leave her alone!" Malfoy shouted. The other patrons who were able to lift their heads from their tables began to stare. Malfoy didn't have any regard for his own life, but Hermione's – well that was different. And besides, he wasn't pining for her, he just missed her. That was all. His missed his friend._

_Lucius easily threw his son back in his chair. "I wouldn't dream of it. You have much to learn son. There are many different kinds of torture. And disgrace that you are," a sigh and a shake of the head, "you are still my son. I suppose it was my own fault. I should have seen it sooner. You have broken your dear mother's heart you know." Malfoy was surprised to hear grief in his father's voice. In his odd, somewhat twisted and self-serving way, Lucius Malfoy loved his wife and son very much._

_Lucius gripped his son's chin and whispered into his ear. Malfoy shuttered at the feeling of his father's breath on his skin. "I could make her yours. There are. . . various spells and potions for such things. I cannot understand your desire for her, but," he shrugged, "to each man his own. I know you would enjoy her. Think about it. You know where to find me. Goodbye." Lucius released him and he left. It was the last time Malfoy ever saw his father._

After his enlightening encounter with his father, Malfoy had spent even more time and money in those parlors trying to keep his mind off his father's offer. As ashamed as he had been, his fantasies of Hermione greatly increased upon his father's offer. He imagined her kisses and her love, he imagined himself between her thighs and her sighs of pleasure. More than once, Malfoy had been determined to take his father up on his ofter, but Malfoy always resisted that temptation in the end. He simply couldn't do that to her. In his shame and misery, Malfoy had sunk even further into his empty callous wasteland.

He wasted many months in this manner, until Hermione came for him. Hagrid had accompanied her – Knockturn Alley was not a safe place for a pretty young witch. The strange duo had dragged Malfoy out of that place and locked him in a room at 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione helped ease him through his agonizing withdrawal. He had his center back. For the most part, her very presence soothed him. For the other, much smaller part, he hated her.

He couldn't remember exactly what he said or did during that time. Fear and shame kept him from asking Hermione what had happened, even after all these years. He did remember the excruciating physical pain, the unbearable headaches, the frightening hallucinations and the shouting and pleading.

"_Hermione, please, I just need one. Just one. And that will be all – I can be to Knockturn Alley and back before evening. I swear I will come back here. Just this once, please. Please Hermione, I need this." He was so desperate. He was so sure he would surely die without one more. Just one more._

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be sorry, just let me go you stupid bitch," he raged. He started for her._

"_Expelliarmus! I'm sorry." And he fell to the ground._

Hermione would hold him and rock him. She would run her small hands through his messy hair. She told him she would never leave him again, but even in that state, he knew that when she wasn't with him, she was with Weasley. Her lips would touch his forehead and his cheeks, but never his lips. He had some hazy images of her touching him far more intimately, but he knew she never would have lowered herself to that. She told him stories, and on occasion read to him. Hermione never mentioned that time, and Malfoy thought it prudent to do the same.

He also developed a strange relationship with Molly Weasley of all people. Her motherly nature wouldn't let him suffer alone, and it appeared she didn't want Hermione to deal with the brunt of his withdrawal. Malfoy cared very deeply for her, even if he couldn't stand the sight of her youngest son. She still sent him a hand-knit jumper every Christmas, and he made sure to send her a box of her favorite chocolates.

Once fully recovered, he did nominal, somewhat meaningless work for the Order. Hermione was more deeply involved, and she told him nothing of her work. Most members of the Order did not trust him and regarded him with suspicion. People left rooms when he entered them. Perhaps renouncing his father and that world wasn't enough. He supposed he didn't help matters much – he had a tendency to get rather defensive and short with people.

"_It's not my fault you're a fucking idiot Potter."_

_Pushing, shoving._

"_What do you two think you're doing?" Hermione shrieked, stepping between them. The two men kept trying to reach around her to get to the other. "Stop this now."_

"_Malfoy's just miffed because the only use he is around here is making meals. With the women." _

_A sneer, more shoving, and an upset Hermione._

The only people that accepted him without question were Hermione and Molly. Hagrid, Dumbledore and Lupin were always kind to him, but he always thought he could see a little wariness in their eyes. The five of them were the only ones who didn't openly look at him with hatred. It was a strange lot he knew, but he still cared for them. He remembered hearing Hagrid gruffly defending him to a most irate Weasley. Neither man knew he stood just a few feet away. He hadn't seen Hagrid in years – he had moved to France to be near Madame Maxime. Perhaps he should write to his old friend.

"_Yeh don' know wha' the boy's been through Ron. Give 'im a chance."_

"_You obviously don't know him Hagrid. He's a bleeding _Malfoy_. I would bet my broomstick that he's a spy. He's gotten close to Hermione so he can infiltrate the Order. Merlin knows I've tried to talk to Hermione about it, but she just won't listen. She can be so stubborn. I just don't understand why she can't see what everyone else sees." It was apparent Weasley was very angry with his dear girlfriend._

"_Yeh don' know tha' Ron. He's a good h'eart. Bit confused, mind yeh, but a good h'eart. An' it's ob'vious to anyone he cares fer our 'ermione."_

_A snort and a switching of tactics. "Yeah well, she just feels sorry for him. I guess it was a natural progression. House elves to Malfoy. And besides, she only befriended him in the first place because Dumbledore ordered her to. It isn't real," Weasley said most maliciously._

"_Ron. Yeh know tha's not true. She cares fer 'im too."_

"_No. She. Doesn't." And with that, Weasley stormed off._

Malfoy never could shake the niggling thought that he was indeed her charity case and only hung around him to make sure he would be alright. Of course, asking her what he meant to her was out of the question. Malfoy hated 12 Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy had disgustingly romantic notions about the final battle. It seemed everyone expected some valorous all-encompassing battle. He would save her, or die for her. He was going to be her hero, and this thought carried him through that difficult time. He would show her that he was for real; he wasn't using her for anything. It wasn't going to be some sort of. . . maudlin declaration of ever lasting love. No, what he felt for her then was different from love. Perhaps he just didn't like the word. It was an insufficient word – it just didn't properly describe how he felt about her.

The final battle, however, was anti-climatic. Malfoy ate dinner with Hermione, the Weasley's and various other members of the Order when it happened. Potter said he was going to the market for the evening's dessert and never returned. It appeared only Dumbledore knew what Potter was doing at the moment. Potter quietly defeated the Dark Lord and then disappeared, ostensibly to Wales it seemed. And then it was all over. He supposed he wasn't meant to be her hero.

"_It's over?" _

_A smile. "It's over. Isn't it wonderful?" Hermione gushed._

_A quick impromptu embrace – the kind the receiver doesn't feel the giver really wants to give. And then she ran to Weasley, laughing and wrapping her arms and legs around him, as he twirled her around the generally happy room. He never saw two people who looked happier together. Malfoy turned away._

Malfoy raised his gaze from the sink back to the mirror. His jaw tightened, and his face hardened. He needed to stop drinking; he really didn't need Hermione to save him yet again. It was getting ridiculous.

Without Hermione, he was nothing. Malfoy realized now that he was little better with her, always yearning for something more. Her chaste friendship could not make him happy no matter how hard she tried. Besides, what could he give her? He hated Weasley for not giving Hermione what she deserved, but Malfoy could do no better. He was half a man at best – full of anger, pain, and confusion. If he were to actually win her heart, Malfoy would probably just drag her down with him. He shook his head – he was thinking entirely too much again.

Spring term would be over in three months. He would render his resignation to Dumbledore tomorrow and leave here when term ended.

He would leave her. He could handle himself – he wasn't quite as weak as he once was. He simply could not watch her re-ignite her relationship with Weasley. Even if they hadn't gotten back together, there was no reason to stay. She had not come to see him since she left the hospital wing. True, he should have gone to her, but friendships were supposed to be reciprocal; she could have come to him. Potter had been right; their relationship was fucked-up.

A tortured smile gripped his lips. It would not be easy to be apart from her, but it was getting too painful to be near her. Perhaps he should thank Jamison. Without that boy and his violent actions, he never would have come to such a conclusion. That night in the hospital wing changed everything, and he never would have acknowledged his need to leave. He would tell her of his plans of course. It would be rude not to. Malfoy adamantly refused to admit the fact that he sincerely hoped she would give him a reason to stay by her side forever.

Yes. He would leave. It was the only way. He didn't expect to find happiness on the way – he'd given up on that ridiculous notion long ago. But he might find something else. Something somewhere had to have some modicum of meaning for him. Meaning – it was a noble thing. Wasn't it?

Hermione could no longer give him meaning, if she ever really did. She was. . . pain. He was tired of pain. So very tired of pain.

Malfoy stumbled out of his bathroom to his living area. It was already night – he must have been asleep in the bathroom for quite some time. He would write his letter now. His head hurt so very much. He spotted a bottle of firewhiskey on his table. Forgetting all about his letter, he focused on the bottle, entranced by its very existence and the numbness of spirit it promised. He walked to his table and ran a finger along the cool glass in the way he wanted to run a finger along Hermione's body. Taking a deep swig, he decided he deserved this bender, and he would consider quitting tomorrow. Right now, this was all he had.

After he drank as much as he felt he needed, and destroyed what belongings he had that needed to be destroyed, Malfoy fell into bed, desperately hoping that when he woke, he and the world would be different. It was not the first time he'd held such a hope.

Malfoy groaned as he woke. He didn't want to open his eyes and find the world had not changed. And besides, his head was killing him.

Or not.

Something soft threaded itself through his hair and gently pressed against his skull. It would start on one side of his head and move to the other, and then, it would repeat the motion, hypnotizing him. He had no wish to open his eyes; he had an unfounded fear that if he faced the day, the pleasant sensation would stop. A moan escaped his lips and he leaned into the touch – this was possibly the most comforting and yet erotic thing he had ever experienced. He heard the turning of a book page.

He was on his side pressed against something soft and warm. As much as he didn't wish to break this trance, curiosity got the better of him and he blinked a few times. Sun rays streamed through his window and ended on his bed. He saw a body – Hermione's body. The curtains on his open window fluttered gently against a breeze. A distinct sun ray formed a morphing triangular pattern across her hips and thighs. Although he couldn't see her face, he knew it was her. Who else would it be? She was leaning against the headboard with one hand occupied in his hair, and the other with a book. He couldn't see what she was reading. She was wearing an old pair of jeans and an equally old faded shirt. He noticed then that his hand rested on her stomach.

What was she doing here? In his bed, with her hand caressing his head no less? How many times had he imagined her in his bed? How many times had he called out to her in this very bed when he released a painful erection? And now she was here. The thought that she belonged here came unbidden to his mind. His whole being was sluggish and dull. He would think on these things later. Right now, he had other things occupying his mind.

Malfoy's breathing changed. It was no longer the deep lazy breathes of waking, but it was the short ragged breaths of want. It wasn't necessarily a sexual desire, although there was that as well. But it was the want to be a part of her, a part of her life, which. . . well, he supposed it was sexual when you got right down to it.

Touching her skin was an absolute necessity. Malfoy closed his eyes, as though this would validate what he was about to do, and as discreetly as possibly, he slid his hand beneath her shirt to glide over her silky smooth skin. She was so warm.

Her hand pressed more deeply against his head and a finger reached down to stoke his brow. His thumb grazed over some imperfection on her side. He stroked what he assumed was a mole for some time. He never knew she had a mole there.

Another page turned. His hand moved on, anxious to explore more of her body. He let his hand move over her slightly rounded belly. He could not get enough air into his lungs. The other side of the castle could probably hear him breathing.

His big hand splayed against her belly and slowly began moving in a circular pattern, pressing into her body. Malfoy had never liked circles much; they never took you anywhere, just back where you started. But feeling her this way convinced him to rethink his attitude regarding circles.

A single finger, starting at his forehead, moved its way over his scalp and down his neck. Her hand played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He couldn't keep another groan from escaping his lips.

Another page turned. This was altogether too wonderful. He clenched his teeth. He could not allow himself to lose all semblance of control. He really didn't want to frighten her or drive her away. Malfoy sincerely hoped she couldn't feel his excitement. But it was so much more than a physical need. It was just as intimate as it was arousing. No other woman had ever been able to awaken such. . . tenderness from him. Of course, he had never loved anyone the way he loved Hermione.

The letter of resignation and Weasley didn't even make a notoriety appearance on his consciousness. She was the only thing he could think of at the moment, and he found, to his own amazement, that it didn't bother him a bit. He moved his hand lower, relishing every moment, every feeling. His thumb toyed with her belly button, and he felt Hermione's breathing quicken as well, in the rising and falling of her belly.

He stopped when he reached the waistband of her jeans. Desperation ripped through him and he shuttered. The hand on his head stilled. They both held their breath in anticipation. He wanted to go lower, deeper, but that was unacceptable and unethical on so many levels.

Seemingly, on its own volition, his pinky finger slid beneath the waistband of her jeans and knickers, gently caressed her and then merely rested there, happily secure in the knowledge that this was close enough. It would have to be enough. That particular offending hand would not violate her any further.

He needed to be closer.

Hesitation.

Then, rather awkwardly, Malfoy grabbed her around her middle and pulled her to him, holding her tightly. She squeaked in surprise, but didn't try to move away from him. Her book hit the floor with a whacking sound. He buried a hand in her hair and nuzzled his face into her sweet smelling neck. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of her neck, but did not kiss her, or move them along the skin of her delectable throat. Her body stiffened.

"I've missed you," he croaked. And he did. How could he have thought of leaving her last night? The day seemed different. She made everything different.

"I know." It seemed her hand never left his head, and it continued stoking him. However, there was a certain stiffness in her actions and in her body. He was making her uncomfortable. Hermione could still be a bit prudish at times, especially when Malfoy was involved. Weasley and Hermione could be rather. . .demonstrative in their affection for one another, but she never let Malfoy get too close. There were various hugs and touches, but to Malfoy, they seemed very benign and innocent. He always thought it was her way of telling him they would never be more than friends.

Weasley – that was why she was trying to move from him. Fuck! He'd forgotten they were probably back together. The world was back to what it was before. He suddenly didn't want her near him again. She was delicately trying to squirm her way out of his embrace.

How could he have let himself believe that she wanted this? Malfoy released her in an effort to ease her discomfort, but did not look at her face. He rested his gaze on the frayed edge of her t-shirt. It hung loosely off her elbow. He waited for her to move away. Yet again. As they always did.

To his great surprise and delight, she didn't move away from him, and she actually nestled herself against him, and rested her head on his chest. It seemed he had just been holding her a bit too tightly or awkwardly.

"I've missed you too," she sighed, wrapping an arm around him.

He couldn't keep himself from smiling, and he once again buried his hand in the wild mass that was her hair.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said sincerely.

"Me too." They rested in comparative silence for a few lovely minutes. He played with her hair, pulling this strand and then that, and she fingered a button on his shirt. He did wonder about Weasley.

"Erm, I saw Weasley the other day at Hogwarts," he said.

"Yes, he came to see me and make sure I was alright." She wasn't making all this any easier.

"So, uh, how is he?"

"I don't really know." She propped her head on his chest and looked up at him. She reached up and brushed her hand against the stubble on his chin.

"Is this your new look?" she asked. "I'm not sure if I like it," she said all this very playfully. She could not divert him however; she had not answered his question.

Her smile faded. She scooted herself a little closer to him. The world stopped. He watched, somewhat wide-eyed as she leaned in and placed three light kisses on the stubble of his jawline. "You have nothing to worry about," she whispered seeming to know just what he needed to hear. She pulled away.

"I brought you something." The moment was over. She hesitated and then eased herself off the bed. She walked away from him, but he did not move.

A cup of what he assumed was coffee was offered to him and she sat at the edge of the bed. He sat up and took it from her.

"Here, this will make you feel better." Better than this? Okay, his head did still hurt, his stomach churned, from what he couldn't exactly tell, and he overall felt sluggish and tired, but he hadn't felt this good in a long time.

He obediently took the cup and drank. A burning taste not associated with coffee razed down his throat. He coughed and sputtered. She just laughed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he asked, still coughing. He violently shook his head, which increased her laughter.

"It's coffee laced with Pepper-Up Potion. I asked Poppy for a good hangover remedy, and she recommended this. Do you feel better?"

He grudgingly admitted that he did. His head felt clear and alert. He still didn't like being tricked in such a manner though and he seriously didn't like the idea of steam coming out of his ears for the rest of the day. In his opinion, it looked undignified.

"I never would have guessed that Pomfrey gets pissed."

She threw her head back and laughed and looked back down at him. "Things are rarely what they seem."

"No, I guess they aren't." But Malfoy already knew that.

She played with the fringe on one of his blankets. "Listen, I actually came here to invite you to join me for the spring holiday. I'm going to visit the Potter's for the week, and I would really like it if you came with me." She turned and looked at him expectantly.

"A week at the Potter's?" Malfoy wasn't quite expecting that. A week at the Potter's sounded more like purgatory than a holiday.

"Hmm-mm. I really think you'll enjoy it. They have a wonderful house in the country. And their kids are so much fun. I know you'll just love them."

"I don't like kids," he grumbled. He really didn't want to go, but he could tell by the shy and hopeful look on Hermione's face that this was important to her. Argument would be fruitless in the end, especially as he was delighted she wanted him to share in a bigger part of her life.

"Liar," Hermione grinned.

"They're whiny and smelly."

"Well then, you ought to get along with them beautifully, as you whine all the time, and I'm not even going to attempt to tell you what you smell like at the moment," she said grinning.

Malfoy realized then that he had been wearing the same clothes for the last forty-eight hours or so.

"Please. I really want to spend the week with you," she said, taking his hand. He grasped it tightly.

"Okay." The world did seem different, but Malfoy wasn't entirely sure if that was indeed the case.


	9. Atonement

**Chapter Nine**

**Atonement **

_He watched, rather wide-eyed as she leaned in and placed three light kisses on the stubble of his jawline. "You have nothing to worry about," she whispered seeming to know just what he needed to hear. She pulled away._

_You have nothing to worry about._

Perhaps it was a remnant of his past life, or maybe it was a male thing, but Malfoy did like to maintain a certain look about himself. An image if you will. It had little to do with actual physical appearance, and everything to do with expression. If he laughed, it was dignified and refined. If he was upset with someone, he would respond with calculated control. He did not like people to see him unsettled or ruffled, so he simply produced an air of calm restraint. He did, however, let people see his irritation and gruffness. He supposed he probably looked rather cold and unfeeling to the outside world, and that suited him just fine.

Malfoy had no wish for people to get too close to him or understand him too deeply, just as he had no wish to get too close to other people. As was often the case for him, he found the more he knew about people, the less he liked them, and he had the feeling that the more people knew about him, the less they liked him as well. (Hermione, of course, was the exception to nearly all these things – he let her see his silly and disturbed side, he laughed openly around her, she was far closer to him than anyone else, and he always wished to know more about her, although he still wasn't sure if he wanted her to know more about him.)

Despite the persona he worked hard to deliver, Malfoy was having a most difficult time keeping a silly little smile off his face these last several days, and it wasn't because he was in a drunken stupor. He liked it, because there was a hesitant whisper inside of him that spoke of the happiness he could find with Hermione. He didn't like it, because, it was ruining his image!

_You have nothing to worry about._

Without realizing it, he would be lecturing a class with a goofy grin on his face. Then he would see that half the class was looking at him strangely. He would bark at some unfortunate student who most likely did not deserve it, and the grin would disappear, only to return a few minutes later.

Even Dumbledore commented on his "lovely smile" as he'd called it. Malfoy very childishly made a gagging noise and stomped away scowling, but it only lasted a few seconds until that stupid grin was back.

In the staff room one day, Malfoy caught McGonagall smiling so warmly at him that he almost fell off his chair. She had captured his gaze so completely that it would have been impossible to look away. Her eyes danced, she quirked an eyebrow and she smirked at him. Minerva McGonagall had smirked at him! She cast a quick glance in Hermione's direction. Malfoy had to throw himself in a coughing fit to keep himself from almost blushing.

He might have to give up on his idea of a controlled façade. Really – gagging to show disgust, almost falling out of chairs, very nearly blushing and not to mention that ridiculously boyish grin. If it was to be, it was to be – Malfoy really didn't mind as much as he thought he should.

It was not difficult to discern his new sense of. . . well, Malfoy called it self-indulgent idiocy, while another might call it a guarded sense of burgeoning hope in his changing relationship with Hermione. It was guarded, because Malfoy had allowed himself to hope before, but those desperate hopes had never materialized. After nearly every break-up between Hermione and Weasley, Malfoy sincerely hoped Hermione would turn her attentions to him, but she never did, if anything, she withdrew further from him. He had made special efforts to show her how much he cared during those times. He would bring her flowers to cheer her up, hot chocolate to warm her and tentative, carefully chosen words that told her that he cared for her and would always be there for her. But it either wasn't enough, or she simply did not wish for such things from him.

_You have nothing to worry about._

After the second or third major break-up, he couldn't remember which; he very nearly told her how much he loved her. As though Hermione had sensed what was coming, she had yanked her hand out of his, jumped out of her chair and bolted from the room, claiming she had work to do. He had sat in the same position for quite some time, his hands still held out in front of him where he'd held hers only moments before. He had been devastated, to say the very least, but he would not let anyone, least of all Hermione, see it.

Consequently, Malfoy had allowed himself to feel less and less hope as the years went by. At one point, he had resolutely told himself that he no longer hoped for anything, except perhaps an early death, and maybe a few close moments with Hermione. Life, by definition was hopeless, in Malfoy's mind at least. One only had to look around at the often hidden misery in people and the state of the world to come to such a conclusion. He had felt somewhat gratified that at least he had strength to admit and accept such a thing, while others could not.

However, if that goofy little smile of his was any indication, he had once again allowed hope to burrow in and infect his being – for in his opinion, hope was a disease for which a brutal acceptance of reality was its only cure.

But there was something decidedly different in his relationship with Hermione now. It had only been about five or six days since Hermione had come to him that day with her hangover remedy, but those five or six days had wrought a subtle change. Their relationship had seemingly returned to its pre-hospital wing status. They never actually spoke of anything of consequence, as per usual, although their dialogue was a bit more light-hearted, and there was a playful sensuality in their words, which had previously been absent.

There were other little things, and Malfoy knew that he might be putting too much emphasis on them and would therefore, only feel rejection in the end yet again, but he convinced himself that those little things did in fact matter. They _had_ to matter.

The touches were more frequent and often lasted longer than they once had. They were innocent touches for the most part, but they were somehow _more_ – a lingering kiss that brushed across a cheek, an arm snaking around a waist to pull the other closer, the shy hand that played with the other's hair, the arms and hands that frequently brushed against each other when they walked together, and his very favorite, the body that would press closely against him and the head that would rest on his shoulder, as they sat in front of the fire.

However, they were much more guarded in their little touches in more public areas, as many rumors already surrounded the two young professors, and neither had a wish to add more fuel to them. Although the rumors amused Malfoy to some extent, they did seem to bother Hermione, so he was careful not to touch her, or look at her too often around the students and other staff, which was far more difficult than it sounded.

It was a little more challenging to control his body around her these days. These touches and gentle caresses did mean he had to masturbate a little more frequently and frenetically than usual. He would allow himself a satisfied little smile as he slowly stroked himself in the shower when he thought of how Hermione had touched him, or not pulled away when he touched her. As he gripped the towel rack, panting and groaning for release, he would imagine how he would caress her and lick her, how he would bruise her lips with his own, how he would get her to open completely to him, how he would tease her and make her beg for him, and how he would take his jolly-good time with her. He had fantasized about her before of course, but his fantasies had a new dimension of hopeful reality that they once lacked.

And then there were the looks. Malfoy didn't know how to describe them. Hermione appeared as though she was trying to figure something out. Her bewildered look was nothing short of absolutely adorable. There was wonder, confusion, and anticipation. Although, Malfoy could barley let himself see that last one for fear he was imagining it. Malfoy didn't know if he had changed his expression around her. He thought he did, because he let himself be a little more open with her, which seemed to confuse her even more. He knew for a fact that he laughed more and she must have noticed.

_You have nothing to worry about. _

Not for the first time, Malfoy really wished he could understand people a little better. No, that wasn't true; he wished he could understand her better. He didn't know if her bewilderment was a good thing, or a bad thing. He knew that Hermione needed to understand things before she acted upon them, so Malfoy decided that he would give her the time she needed.

Unfortunately for Malfoy, Hermione's mind could grasp aspects of issues he couldn't, therefore, he was sure it would take quite some time, but it didn't matter. He didn't want to wait, but he would. Mafloy did not wish to frighten her, not now, when things were better between them then ever before, at least in Malfoy's mind.

Most suddenly, but most quietly and unobtrusively, Malfoy's focus had shifted from himself to Hermione. He supposed it happened the day she brought him the hangover remedy and told him he had nothing to worry about.

Malfoy scrutinized her body language, expressions and speech, but he wasn't really any closer to understanding her. The problem with Hermione was that she never really _talked_ to him, so he had to rely on himself to figure her out. He had become quite skilled in picking up the little fragments of self-depreciation and uncertainty she sometimes let loose in the course of an apparently benign conversation, and he did spend more time with her than just about anyone else, so he figured that he did know more about her than the average person.

He had seen her as a one-dimension person in his first six years of Hogwarts, so it often surprised him when he noticed some little thing about her. After a couple years of study, he unearthed her nervousness and lack of confidence she was a master at concealing. He didn't know what exactly had chipped away at the once confident woman, but he had his suspicions in the person of Ron I-couldn't-keep-my-mouth-shut-if-you-paid-me Weasley. It made Malfoy angry to think that this wonderful woman didn't think nearly as much of herself as he did.

Her amazing intellect also set her apart from others which could also account for the change in her adult demeanor. On more than one occasion, he heard Hermione dumb-down her theories and ideas to explain them to another person. The conversations often took the same course - it would start with Hermione's unadulterated excitement in the hope that she had found a kindred academic. Then the realization that she was far more advanced than her conversational partner would dawn upon her disappointed face. And finally, the doubt that perhaps her theory or idea was unworthy of consideration. It always made him a little sad to see her so unappreciated. Malfoy wished he could be her. . . sounding board, as it were, but he simply wasn't as smart as she was.

Malfoy had always known she was highly intelligent, but then, who didn't know that? But her mind was far more advanced than an encyclopedic knowledge of everything. She was far deeper and more complex than anyone he had ever known, and this only increased his attraction. He had watched her change from seventh year on when she started to allow her mind to grasp even more abstract and intricate ideas. Although Hermione no longer spouted facts for the sheer joy of showing how much she knew, it was evident, even when she spoke of trivial subjects, that she was highly intelligent. And both men and women were often intimidated by this kind gentle woman who had no wish to intimidate them in the first place.

There was a bit of a wall she had built around her that he simply could not penetrate, despite all his efforts. She never came to him with any substantial problems, preferring McGonagall or her old friend Ginny Weasley. Malfoy was jealous of the relationship the two women shared with Hermione. He had always wished she was more candid with him, but he couldn't force her after all.

In the last few years, a quiet sadness had overtaken her. At the time, he did not know what was wrong with her. He had asked, of course, but she simply brushed him off. It had taken him quite some time to see it for what it was. He hadn't thought much of it, thinking that it would evaporate on its own, and for the most part, it had, but every now and again, he thought he could catch a glimpse of that beautiful sadness. There was little in her manner that suggested she was unhappy, but there was a sublime sort of. . . pensiveness about her now, despite her general cheeriness. He was determined, that if it were possible, he would find the source of her sadness and eradicate it. There was hope for both of them.

These last few days had not only given Malfoy a reason to smile and hope, but they also bestowed upon him a real sense of purpose – the first he'd had in a very long time. He would crack open Hermione Granger, they would have The Talk, or at least A Talk, and she would know how much he loved her. He would, of course, wait for the appropriate moment, and if that appropriate moment decided it wanted to be coy and not present itself, then by the gods, he would make an appropriate moment. And maybe if he was lucky, that moment would give him the outcome he wanted.

It was the night before they left for the Potter's. Malfoy did his best not to think too much about spending a whole week with Harry Potter and his mewling brats, for Potter's children could nothing but mewling brats. But it was very important to Hermione, so he had no desire to try and renege on his promise, and he did feel gratified that she wished him to be with her. He could barely admit it to himself, but he was looking forward to it. She was welcoming him to share more deeply in her life. If that couldn't make a bloke happy, he didn't know what would.

Tonight, he made his way to Hermione's rooms, and if he were a skipping man, he would have skipped, but he most certainly wasn't. He had not seen her all day, so he was looking forward to spending the evening with her. He had just come off his rounds, and even the nasty little berks that were Hogwarts students couldn't put him in a bad mood.

"Strange." He uttered the password to Hermione's rooms and stepped inside.

Unlike his own chambers, Hermione's were warm and welcoming, and not surprisingly, there were insane amounts of books scattered about. It was uncharacteristically dark in Hermione's rooms. Malfoy withdrew his wand, and lit the lights. Hermione told him he could come and see her tonight. Had she forgotten?

Crookshanks sat on his favorite chair, lewdly cleaning himself. Malfoy grinned and turned to look for Hermione, but did not see her. He knew she was there as her overflowing school bag was on her desk. There was a small suitcase with a few clothes carelessly tossed inside.

He stepped into her bedroom, but she wasn't there either. Odd. He wasn't exactly sure why, but it bothered him that she wasn't there. The door to the bathroom was open, light spilling out of the room. Why was it so quiet in here? If Hermione wasn't reading, she generally had some sort of music playing.

_You have nothing to worry about._

He quietly stepped around her bed to the bathroom. Through the open door, he could see Hermione's reflection in the large mirror. Her hands were placed flat on the countertop and she was staring at herself, trancelike, with the most heartbreaking expression he had ever seen. It looked like sad resignation to a horrible fate.

"Hermione?" he said quietly as he pushed the door all the way open.

As though she had not heard him, she continued staring at herself, but after just a moment, she broke from her trance and faced him. "Oh hi Malfoy," she said quietly.

"Hey," he started for her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "are you alright?" He could see their reflection in the mirror. Hermione's posture was a little slumped, a little defeated, while he was the picture of utmost concern.

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm just so tired. I-I had a long day." She gave him a faint smile in a vain attempt to dispel his concern, but she did not meet his eyes when she spoke and her voice was painfully quiet.

"Here, let's go sit down, I'll make you some tea." He guided her out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom and into her living area. Hermione did not raise her eyes from the floor. He gently deposited her on her sofa.

"I'll just be a minute." He stepped away to make her some tea. What was going on? He had never seen her so sad, so ready to break. Even at the many funerals they attended during the battle with the Dark Lord, she had carried herself with a soft dignity, allowing only a few tears to escape from her lovely eyes. And although she did not look as if she'd been crying, it seemed only a moment or a word away. He searched his mind for a reason for her blatant unhappiness as he quickly and quietly prepared her tea. Perhaps she was second-guessing the last few days and their growing closeness. At the moment, he didn't care, as long as that horrible look was removed from her face.

Trepid footsteps led him back to Hermione. He really didn't know what to do. He wasn't exactly good at dealing with people. Hermione held Crookshanks close to her with her head resting on his back. Crookshanks did not look particularly comfortable, but he purred anyway. Her eyes were wide, but vacant. He had no idea what that meant. She didn't even notice when he re-entered the room.

He stepped in front of her. "Er-here. This might make you feel better." He gave her a diminutive smile. Detaching a hand from Crookshanks, she reached out for the cup, took one sip and placed it on the table behind her.

He sat on the edge of the sofa, so he could face her. He reached out and pushed her hair behind her ear, hoping this might at least get a glance in his direction. He had not meant to, but he let his forefinger linger on her ear lobe. But she did not notice or simply did not feel the need to respond. He needed something from her. She had to give him some clue as to how to proceed. Hermione's unresponsiveness frightened him quite a bit more than he wished to admit. Without thinking, he had labeled her as the steady one in their friendship. Seeing her this way shattered his illusion.

He gently stroked her hair, his hand barely touching her soft bushy locks. He swallowed, and slipped his hand beneath her mass of hair to cup the back of her neck. She was tense, so he lightly massaged her neck muscles, occasionally letting his fingers slide into her hair. His other hand grasped hers, but she did not squeeze his hand as she normally did.

Hermione leaned back into his touch. Her eyes were closed, her mouth a little open, and her hold on Crookshanks slackened. Crookshanks looked grateful, if it is possible for a cat to look grateful. Good, at least he was getting a response. They stayed this way for a several quiet minutes.

Malfoy watched her closely for any sign that might give him an idea of what was going on. His breaths were shallow – not knowing what bothered her was killing him – he ran through dozens of scenarios in his head – her parents were harmed or ill, one of her friends was in an accident, another student made mention of a mudblood professor, Crookshanks bit her, she didn't want him near her anymore - Malfoy really didn't know.

"Hermione. Hermione, please. Talk to me." He could hear the desperation in his own voice. He pressed his forehead against the side of her head. He dumbly noted the sweet scent of her hair.

"I can't." Her voice was barely audible. He pulled his head away from her to watch a fat tear slip out of her eye and travel down her skin. Her chin quivered. She jerked her hand to cover mouth, but the tortured sob she tried to suppress still made its way out. Her motion sent Crookshanks to the ground.

He moved even closer to her. "Yes. Yes, you can. You know you can talk to me about anything." His voice was so gentle, it surprised even himself.

In response, she shook her head furiously. This was so unlike her. Hermione did not let people see her this way. She was not prone to this type of thing. Malfoy felt as though he'd fallen into another plane of existence. How to deal with something that made no had no basis in this dimension of reality?

He made to wrap his arms around her, but she pulled away. She eased herself from the sofa and stood away from him. Silent sobs wracked her body. He got up and wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her tightly against his body with quiet intensity, as though the action would squeeze the pain out of her. She hesitantly buried her face in his chest, while her arms hung limply at her sides.

"Hermione, you have to tell me," he said, just a little firmly. "Please don't do this to yourself."

He heard her say something muffled against his chest, so he caught nothing. He lifted her chin to look up at him, but her eyes darted this way and that, alighting upon everything but his eyes. "What was that, love?" he asked as he stroked her cheek.

Hermione finally looked at him. There was a stormy finality in the depths of her eyes, as she pushed herself away from him.

"I can't do this Malfoy. I-I thought I could, but. . . but I can't. I just can't." The words struggled to make it out of her mouth – they came in fits and starts in the tortured whispers of her broken voice. Her mouth did not wish to release those words, but her body forced them out.

"What do you mean?" he breathed. She meant him. She meant them. No, she couldn't. She couldn't mean it. No, they were so close. So close to each other and so close to something new. Something that made him happy. He realized now that the stupid grin that haunted his face this last week signified his anticipated happiness. He had never really been happy before. He had been so close.

_You have nothing to. . ._

"Malfoy, I'm so sorry, but I just. . ." She turned from him again, and raised that hand back to her mouth as the sobs once again overtook her weary body. She flopped on the floor, sitting like a little girl all curled up into herself with her hands covering her face.

Almost by instinct, he rushed to her, and pulled her off the ground. With much awkwardness, he lifted her limp and unresponsive body against him. He tried to think of something to say that would comfort her, but no thought materialized. This could not be happening.

Malfoy carried her to her bedroom, with Crookshanks at his heels. He gently placed Hermione on her bed, and she turned to press her face into her pillow. Crookshanks hopped on the bed and nestled against her. The mangy cat made a sound that sounded like "meep" as Hermione pulled the animal closer to her. Not knowing what else to do, Malfoy very deliberately removed her shoes and socks.

When that little task was done, he stood over her, watching her weep. Part of him felt dirty for seeing this part of her that she so obviously wished to hide.

Malfoy was so confused. He wanted to make things better for her, but it seemed he was part of the problem, so he really didn't know what to do. But he had to be here for her. She was his best friend, and he would not leave her to suffer alone. He shuffled out of his own shoes and crawled into bed with her.

Malfoy was very hesitant in his movements because he didn't know if this was the right thing. He spooned into her form and he slid one arm underneath her head and wrapped the other around her body and held her unresisting body close to him. He held her, and she held Crookshanks.

Her wracking sobs eventually quieted into soft cries. Malfoy simply held her. He made no motion to touch her in any other way. All he really felt was sadness. Sadness for her and sadness for himself. Things had been going so well. Had he said or done something to bring her to this state? Had someone else intervened and been harsh with her? He felt completely impotent.

They spent quite some time in this way until Hermione stopped crying. The silence in the bedroom was occasionally punctuated by her hiccups. He waited. If this was the appropriate moment he'd been hoping for, he would curse Fate for the cold bitch she was.

"I'm sorry," she said in a voice that almost sounded like her own.

"Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry about." And she didn't.

"I didn't want you to see that," she said as she shifted to pull her familiar closer to her.

"I know," he said as he tentatively allowed his thumb to stroke the hand that rested on Crookshanks.

It took a few more moments for Malfoy to realize that she would offer no other information. He would have to draw it out of her. Oh gods help him, he was no good at these types of things.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked soothingly.

"Ron." He was glad that he wasn't facing her. He didn't want her to see the pained look that crossed his face.

"What about W-Ron?" He thought he had more control over his faculties, but as it was, he didn't, so the question sounded a bit like a whimper.

A slight pause on her part. "He forgave me."

"He forgave you?"

Another longer pause. "I don't think I would have if I was in his place, but he did." Almost as an after though, she added, "I miss him."

"Forgave you for what?" Malfoy did not wish to address the other statement.

"Er," he could feel her pulling away again, "you know."

"I don't know what you mean Hermione."

"Yes you do," she sounded tired and just a tiniest bit exasperated.

"I really don't." He really didn't.

She turned to lie on her back so she could see him. She opened her mouth once or twice to speak, but thought the better of it.

"Hermione, what's going on?"

"Nothing," she sighed, "it's obviously nothing." She squirmed her way out of his embrace. "Listen, we have to get up early tomorrow to get the students to the Hogwarts Express, and I'm really tired."

He stared at her dumbly.

_You have nothing. . . _

"I think you should go," she said with subtle conviction.

"Hermione-"

"No, I'm just really tired. I didn't sleep at all last night and I just," she sighed, "I just need to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." He knew they wouldn't. Tomorrow would not carry the intensity of tonight. He could see she was embarrassed for her earlier display, and she would not wish to explain it to him in the garishness of the day. No, she would not do this again. He was hurt and angry that she would dispose of him so easily, but he was also concerned for her. Something was very wrong with her.

He grabbed her wrist as she made to get out of bed. "Oh no Hermione. Weren't you the one who said we couldn't keep doing this? That we couldn't keep turning away from each other? Huh? You did say it, didn't you? I for one, remember it quite clearly." Her eyes widened at his angry tone. "You can't make statements like that in the expectation that it will only suit your needs. I'm not going to let you. We are talking tonight." She huffed and sat on the bed. Out of Hermione's grasp, Crookshanks settled himself into her pillow and watched the two of them. Malfoy propped himself up on one elbow.

"I don't want to talk to you tonight." Her eyes were clear and she was suitably angry. Exhausted, but angry. He had his Hermione back. "I'm so tired of this," she said motioning her hand between them.

"What?"

"This, this," she continued wildly motioning between them, "this you and I. And why do we have to talk when you want to and not when I want to. God, you are so selfish. Everything is about you isn't it?" Her words held a dark sarcasm.

"It is not and you know it."

"Oh yes it is," he could hear a bit of the bossy know-it-all in her tone.

He could see she wouldn't back down. It was time to try something else. "Okay, so what if it is. Everything _has_ to be about me because you won't let me in."

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. Good, she was confused by his little maneuver.

"Yeah well," she said, sounding like a child who knows she was caught doing something wrong, but was still going to try and weasel her way out, "you don't try very hard do you?" She pointed a finger at him accusingly.

"For fuck's sake Hermione," he cried, completely frustrated, "I've been trying to get closer to you for years." She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. "And if you think I haven't been trying hard enough, well, maybe I haven't, but I didn't want to push you away. I didn't want to lose what we had." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Really?"

"Good gods Hermione!" He knew she wasn't stupid, but anyone could see how much she meant to him. "Why do you think I hang around you all the time? Huh?"

Malfoy jumped out of the bed and moved in front of her. There was a kind of dark energy tearing up his insides that refused to let him sit still. How could she doubt him like this? He had endured accusations and threats from her friends just to be near her. In his seventh year, his housemates joked that he followed "goody-goody Granger around like a lost little puppy. Ha Ha Ha." In his defense, that wasn't really true, he'd made a concerted effort not to show her too much affection. He supposed it was inevitable, their friendship was cast in mystery, and people were bound to say things that weren't precisely true.

"You know, I really don't know why you hang around me. We're there for each other when it's easy, but when things get difficult, we just can't handle it." She was just rationalizing now. Malfoy knew this because he did it all the time.

"Hermione," he grabbed her arm. Her surprise was evident. "I have always been here for you," he seethed, "you just never come to me, do you? You would probably go to that stupid house-elf you like so much before you would come to me."

"I would not, and Dobby is not stupid, so don't say that," she said, very nearly shouting.

Malfoy started to pace. He feared that if he opened his mouth to speak, he would start shouting at her and although he couldn't remember ever being quite this angry with her, he didn't wish to start a shouting match. Stomping around on her floor made him feel markedly better. They two had something to accomplish tonight. He had almost forgotten why they started arguing in the first place, but he would find out why Weasley had to forgive her. Malfoy forced himself to take deep breaths in the hope that it would calm him. Hermione would not respond to unadulterated anger, so he would have to try something else.

He watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was watching him trying not to watch her. When he saw her shake her head and look at the hands that rested in her lap, he made his move. He sat beside her and took her hands.

"Hermione, I think we can both agree that I'm lazy, complacent, I give up easily, and if I can dump my work on others I don't hesitate to do so. You remember the Valentine's Ball last year that I was supposed to organize? And I got McGonagall and Snape to do all the work, well, I had to blackmail Snape, but all the same. And I put myself in charge of the balloons because I thought it would be the easiest thing, but it wasn't because Dumbledore wanted like a million balloons? And it took me days to take care of all the balloons?" Complex, hurtful subjects were best approached with a hint of comedy. Humor made things go down a little easier. He thought he saw a baby grin through the curtain of her hair. "But I think we can both agree that, on occasion, that rare _rare_ occasion, that I can be quite stubborn and might I say, even unreasonable." He played with her fingers. "I'm not leaving here until you tell what's wrong."

She said nothing, just watched her hands. It was torture. Malfoy was beginning to think that if this night didn't kill him, nothing possibly could. Maybe he could get himself a nice cape and introduce himself as Invincible Man. All he would require was a theme song and maybe a trusty sidekick.

"Hermione," he said firmly as he gripped her chin to force her gaze to him, "why did Weasley have to forgive you? I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

Rather painfully, she opened her mouth. "He forgave me for the time when you and I, you know." She gave that look. It was the look that said, "I know what I mean, you know what I mean, but I don't want to say it and you don't want to hear it."

"Hermione, I really don't know what you mean." Malfoy had never acted out against Weasley with Hermione, so it wasn't that. He was starting to fear that he knew what she meant – "when you and I, you know." It couldn't possibly be. He would definitely remember something like that.

"You really don't?"

"No."

"Oh." She looked like she would very likely fall into silence again.

"Hermione, what did you and I do?"

She fidgeted. "Well, I let you, um, that is to say. You really don't remember? I just can't believe that, you seemed so lucid at the moment." He shook his head. "Ginny said you probably didn't remember, and that it was unlikely that you would have. . . but I didn't believe her. And Harry said you would have, that if you really cared about me, you wouldn't have done it." She looked up and they locked gazes. He slowly and unassuredly raised his hand to cup her cheek.

"Tell me." He didn't want to hear, but she needed to tell. If her earlier breakdown was any sign, it was slowly, but surely eating away at her. He was prepared to take it on himself.

She swallowed and turned her gaze back to her hands. Complex hurtful subjects were also easier if you didn't look another in the eye. He didn't exactly know why that was so, but it was.

"Well, you, uh, you remember when Hagrid and I came and got you from Knockturn Alley?" He nodded. "I mean you were so messed up, and-and you tried to hit Hagrid and he had to carry you out of there and I was really scared for you. And we didn't know what you had taken, and you were so, you just, babbled, and we couldn't understand you at all. We tried giving you different potions to ease you through, um, through that time, but they didn't work. I think they actually made you worse."

"And-and you weren't sleeping, and I thought you just going to totally lose it." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, or steel herself to tell him the thing he didn't want to hear. Malfoy didn't know which.

"Anyway, on the second night you were there, at Grimmauld Place, you tried to kiss me. And you told me that you loved me, and you said something about a center, you called me your center, but I didn't understand what that meant. And you said I deserted you and why would I do that." She kept shooting glances up at him to see how he was taking this. He honestly didn't know how he was taking this, but he was holding his breath.

"And you just, said all these things, and you kind of, um, you kind of begged me," she said that last bit very quietly. "And you just seemed so lost and broken, that-that I let you. . . er, you know."

You know.

Malfoy felt very strange. He supposed shock was the overwhelming feeling. Of course, he felt remorse, but that feeling didn't crush him as he thought it would, considering the situation. Perhaps when the shock dissipated.

"Did I, did I hurt you?"

"Um," she looked down. The remorse started making its presence known – it exploded through every system in his body. He had hurt her. She looked up at him, her face full of wonder.

_You are nothing._

"No, no, it wasn't like that Malfoy. I let you. It was consensual. It wasn't, it wasn't like that at all. You didn't force me, you didn't even try to force me," she said, gripping the hands that had become limp in hers.

"Were you a virgin?" Malfoy asked, holding his breath in fear of her answer.

"No, you were just, kind of. . .f-frantic." She surprised him by throwing her arms around him. "Oh, I shouldn't have told you. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have told you. I thought you knew," she whispered against his ear.

He pushed her away. "You have nothing to be sorry about Hermione."

"I know," she said quietly, but he could tell she didn't really believe it.

"Hermione, you have nothing to be sorry about," he repeated.

"I know, I should have known that you weren't, er, with it, but you just, it was the first time you made any sense in two days."

"So you thought, for all these years, that I just, let it go – that I just thought of it as a one-time thing? That I would just discard you like that?"

"Well, yes."

"Hermione, you know I would never knowingly do that to you. I would never hurt you like that."

"I know how you are with women Malfoy," Hermione said, soundeding defeated.

"Hermione-" How to reply when she had a valid reason?

"I mean since we've been friends, your longest, erm, relationship has lasted twenty-four hours."

It was true. Malfoy wasn't some sort of playboy, but he did seek release from anonymous women when he felt the need. He never led them on. There was an understanding that it would be a one-time sort of thing. These encounters were never really satisfying, not when he really wanted Hermione.

They sat next to each other, holding hands. Neither knew what to say. Neither knew how to rectify the situation. It slowly started to dawn on Malfoy how much he had hurt her with that forgotten action – how much it had shaped their relationship. Their sexual encounter, which he couldn't remember, had far-reaching consequences. He didn't want to think how far. He didn't want to think about how things would be different between them if it had never happened, or if he had remembered their night together. He didn't want to think how she might be different and how it had changed her relationship with Weasley. That one act was the cloud that hung over their friendship – it was why she never let him get close to her, why she never really talked to him. He was so completely unworthy of her.

"Hermione," he began quietly, "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make this better. You just have to know that I'm so incredibly sorry for what happened. I wish you had told me sooner." He spoke slowly and tried to choose the perfect words. "You. . .I mean, I've. . ." he sighed. "You are the only real person in my life, and you mean more to me than anyone or anything else. I-I just, I'm so sorry, Hermione I. . ."

"I know. It's okay."

"No, it really isn't."

A tormented silence fell between them. They both lightly fidgeted. An inner battle waged within Malfoy. He was still overwhelmed with guilt, and yet, he still felt a sliver of hope that things might work out. But how could they? After what he had done to her, after how he had hurt her in so many ways? But that was so many years ago, and he was obviously not himself, and she said she forgave him. But that didn't make everything okay.

"Malfoy, what, I mean, well, what happens now?"

He didn't know. "What would you like to happen?"

"I'm not really sure. I mean, I don't think we can let this go," she said, motioning between them. "You and I are – I guess I don't know what we are, but I don't want to lose you either."

He grasped her hands. "Well I guess we want the same thing then. That's a start," he said, trying to flash her a grin. She was too exhausted to see it.

"Would you still like me to go to the Potter's with you?"

She nodded with closed eyes. He felt rather relieved.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed. It looks like you're about ready to collapse. Where do you keep your bedclothes?"

She pointed to her bureau. "Third drawer down." He reluctantly let go of her hands and rummaged through the drawer. He saw a few sexy little numbers, but felt nothing. He pulled out a pair of pink bottoms with tacky bright blue flowers, and a green t-shirt with a silly cartoonish tiger baring its teeth.

He held them up for her inspection. "You've always had a little different take on fashion than the rest of the world." She gave him a tired grin. The poor woman could barely keep her eyes open. He cleared his throat. "Do you, uh, need help?"

"No," she said, but she started struggling to get her shirt off her head as he watched her. It embarrassed him.

"Here, let me help you." He pulled the shirt off her head. Trembling, he reached behind her and unsnapped her bra, and she made no move to resist him.

"Raise your arms." Malfoy did his best not to look at her as he slid the shirt over her head.

"Stand up," he said as he lifted her off the bed. She held her arms a little behind her as he unbuttoned and unzipped her. Pulling her pants off, he hoped his actions were as asexual as possible. He helped her step out of her pants and into her bottoms.

Although Hermione only had to walk a grand total of about three steps to get into bed, Malfoy felt the need to pick her up and place her in the messy bed. He pulled the covers around her and made quite the show of tucking her in.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Sleep well," he whispered as he squeezed her hand. Malfoy really didn't want to leave her, but he thought it was the best thing. He reluctantly pulled away, but she did not release his hand. In fact, she pulled his hand towards her.

"Are you sure?"

She just gave him a little smile and scooted away from the edge of the bed. Crookshanks had to reposition himself as Hermione invaded his space. The cat didn't seem to mind. Malfoy stripped to his t-shirt and shorts. He felt very cold.

Malfoy tentatively lifted the covers and slid in beside her. He hesitated. What did she want? She put her hand on his chest. He slid closer to her and enveloped her in his embrace. He tried, with little success, in not holding her too tightly.

"Hermione?"

"Hmmm."

"I love you," he whispered.

"Yeah?" she looked up at him.

"Yeah," he almost laughed. How could she not know that?

"Like?"

"Like I never want to be apart from you. Ever. Like I'll let you win every argument from now on. Like I've never been more sorry for anything than what I did to hurt you."

"Even-"

"Yes. Go to sleep love. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Okay." Within a few short minutes, she was fast asleep, her head against his chest, her mouth slightly open.

While Hermione slept soundly, Malfoy could hardly blink. Hermione's revelation opened up a whole new facet of their relationship. He ached when he thought of all the pain and uncertainty he had caused her. He tried to excuse himself for his action. There were many valid reasons – he had been supremely fucked-up, he hadn't wanted to hurt her, and he couldn't remember it, but despite all that, he still couldn't forgive himself.

Malfoy liked to think that he had absolved himself of the sins of his youth. He had been a different person then, just a boy really. The images haunted him though – no one can really imagine what it's like to watch a tormented soul take ten hours to die without actually witnessing it. He remembered entrails being pulled out of a person screaming for mercy, he remembered women lying lifeless waiting for the next brutal rape, and he remembered children who didn't yet understand the cruelty of the world crying for their parents with insanely frightened looks in their eyes. But Malfoy didn't know these people. He imagined their families and friends – how these violent acts had changed their lives, but he didn't see it, so he couldn't really know.

But he was more remorseful for this, this, thing he'd done to Hermione. It made him feel a little ashamed because he knew it should not be so, but it was. Surely, torture and death were more reprehensible than forgotten consensual intercourse. Of course, he had never actually engaged in the torture and death, but he had done nothing to stop it; he had sat on the sidelines like the scared, weak little boy he had been.

He had been relatively close to Hermione for years – he could see now how it affected her. Unlike the death and torture he had watched, he saw the aftermath with Hermione. He didn't witness families torn apart and children dealing with absent parents, but he did see Hermione's shrinking confidence, her lack of trust and her sadness.

Malfoy didn't know how exactly it had affected her. He wasn't so arrogant as to believe that he was the sole cause of all these things, but she might be different if he had acted differently. Perhaps she had wanted the two of them to get together, but they didn't. Or she may just have wanted an acknowledgement of her gift, or an apology. He was sure that she felt guilty about it, as she had been with Weasley at the time.

Malfoy was one of her closest friends, and she thought he regarded her as a convenient lay. He wondered if perhaps their growing closeness of the last few days had frightened her. Perhaps she didn't want to be tossed aside again.

But she had stayed near him for all these years. That must mean something. He wondered if she thought about that night often, or if, like him, she pushed unpleasant memories to the edge of her consciousness. He thought that might be the case as she had never mentioned anything to him. Perhaps it was a night she simply wished to forget. Malfoy wasn't sure how that made him feel.

And Weasley. He had forgiven her. She must have told him. He could not imagine Weasley being so magnanimous as to forgive Hermione for a night of infidelity, and with a Malfoy no less. Malfoy grudgingly admitted that he new little about the man. His hatred for Weasley stemmed from a dark jealousy rather than any actual knowledge of him and his relationship with Hermione, but as he thought on it now, Hermione had seemed so happy when she was with Weasley and tonight she said she missed him. Best not to think about it too much.

Malfoy wasn't sure if he had forgiven himself for his past life, but that didn't matter right now. What mattered was her. How to atone for a sin one couldn't remember committing? How to atone for any irredeemable, unpardonable sin?

Malfoy pressed his face into her hair and tried to get some sleep, unaware that his little grin had taken its leave of him.

_You have nothing to worry about._


	10. Faith

6/25/06 I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story again and again. Your reviews have encouraged me to finish this fic when I was ready to abandon it. I am currently writing Chapter Eleven, although it is not going very smoothly. I have also recently revised and reposted all previous chapters. Nothing really changes, but there were a few things I thought could be a bit crisper. I do plan on finishing this piece, I just can't say when that will be. Thank you all again!

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**Chapter Ten**

**Faith**

_Sometimes there is nothing. And sometimes, a man can't feel anything. Because sometimes, it really is for the best._

At one time in his life, Malfoy had been quite decisive. Things were easy and most subjects required little reflection before action was taken. There were no ethical or moral dimensions to consider. Malfoy could admit that earlier in his life, he probably could not have identified an ethical or moral dimension to a problem to save his pitiful soul. But life was different then. Questions were easier, it was true. Of course it wasn't true, but time often has its way of distorting the past and like most people, Malfoy readily and irrationally accepted those distortions.

Things were different now. Decisions were far more difficult to formulate. There seemed to be an abundance of ramifications to consider when making a decision. In light of this, Malfoy had the tendency to avoid important decisions and simply let life, or more accurately, let Hermione take him where she would have him.

But this was different. Malfoy never felt so sure of anything in his life. Such a strong, unequivocal decision could only make a man feel like . . . well, like a man. He might have puffed out his chest a bit at his feelings of unabashed masculinity, were he not so ungodly nauseous.

Even if Hermione asked him in her sweetest voice, Malfoy would never _ever_ ride the Knight Bus again. He felt like someone had ungraciously reached into his abdominal cavity and rearranged everything they had found there, taking special care that his intestines reached well into his throat, all the while laughing a quiet maniacal laugh. He didn't know how people could handle this on a regular basis. Surely, it was a sign of a mass neurosis.

Malfoy took some comfort in the fact that Crookshanks was having as difficult a time as he was. The animal often emitted a low-pitched howl while rattling around in his carrier and Malfoy took perverse pleasure in it. It was only right that Crookshanks should suffer so, since Crookshanks was the reason they were on this infernal bus. Malfoy had no real problem with Crookshanks – the two got along reasonably well, but now Malfoy was entertaining various nefarious schemes involving all manner of feline torture. When Hermione had presented him with the tickets to the Knight Bus a mere two hours ago, Malfoy had been a bit puzzled. He couldn't deny he was curious about the prospect as he had never ridden it before, but he simply couldn't understand why they would ride a bus when they could just as well Apparate. Hermione had replied in her most innocent voice that Crookshanks didn't like to Apparate, as though it was completely natural to subject themselves to the horror that was the Knight Bus because her mentally deficient, smelly, ugly, cantankerous and overall abominable familiar didn't like to Apparate. Malfoy could only wonder how Crookshanks fared when Apparating as he didn't seem to enjoy the Knight Bus in any sense of the word. Malfoy hoped he might be able to see such a sight at some point in his life and the thought brought him some pleasure.

The bus made another sharp stop. Malfoy grunted as his body rammed into the seat in front of him. Hermione appeared totally unaffected as she leaned against the side of the bus and stared blankly out the window. He sighed and slid back into his chair. It seemed only fitting that Malfoy should be so tormented by this bus. The day had not gone well up to this point, and Malfoy could find little reason for it actually improving. He was exhausted, but more than that, he felt completely blank. His mind had absolutely refused to think on anything today because he feared that if he did, the misery would soon overwhelm him and ultimately destroy him. A sincere and yet understated sense of bleakness and regret infused him. He couldn't say that he didn't care what happened, because he knew he did, he just couldn't feel it at the moment. He and Hermione needed to talk, but he simply didn't know what he could possibly say to her. Malfoy knew that in times such as this, when relationships teeter between oblivion and distrust, that there really wasn't anything one could say. A man could just hope that a solution would present itself and everything would work out in his favor, but Malfoy had little if any hope that this would be the case.

The air itself had shifted awkwardly between them this morning. Hermione had been sufficiently discomfited in her demeanor and each time she had met his eyes, she would quickly look away. In all truthfulness, Malfoy was thankful for the incompetency of the Knight Bus driver as it distracted him from his current situation with Hermione, and yet even through all the tossing about he experienced, the last twenty-four hours were ever-present in his consciousness.

For the vast majority of the night, sleep had evaded him. Hermione slept the sleep of the dead, while sleep refused to bless Malfoy until very late the following morning. This had given him ample time to re-play the conversation of the night before in his head. He recalled instances throughout their relationship that suddenly made more sense in the light of what he had learned – Hermione's distance from him, her near obsessive loyalty to Ron Weasley, and overall, her wish not to enter into a relationship with himself. The devastation had crushed him when he realized how little she trusted in him and their friendship – she had never mentioned it, she had never asked for an apology, she had never made any allusions to it. He realized then that he had no idea what she wanted from him and no idea what he could possibly give her.

His sense of remorse had only deepened as the night wore on, while his grip on Hermione's body had tightened. He simply could not get close enough to her. Her scent was near, but so subtle that it didn't choke him. Her body was near, but she wasn't crushing him. Her hair brushed against his face, but it wasn't strangling him. At one point in the night, he had pulled her limp body to rest completely upon his. It was good, but her weight didn't suffocate him, as it should have been.

He had awoken to find that Hermione had left his embrace. There was no panic, no overwhelming sense of loss upon finding that she was no longer in his arms. He knew it would happen as such, but he had hoped it would not. They had stammered their good mornings and politely asked how the other was faring. Malfoy made a motion to reach for Hermione but she had backed away mentioning that they needed to be packing and helping the students onto the train and then they both found escape in the chaos that Hogwarts students happily provided for the weary couple.

A sharp stop brought Malfoy back to the present moment and with a rather unmanly yelp, he was pitched to the floor once again. Hermione precariously held onto her upright position while she let an unladylike guffaw escape her lips at Malfoy's predicament. Malfoy grumbled a bit, but it was the first time today he heard Hermione laugh, so he raised his head to meet her eyes and gave her a half-smile which she returned.

"This is our stop Malfoy," Hermione said, as she gathered their bags. Malfoy groaned as he picked himself up and he thought he heard Hermione stifle a giggle, but he couldn't be sure.

Hermione thanked the conductor as they descended the stairs, while Malfoy silently cursed him. They stepped out into the dense Welsh air. It took Malfoy a moment to regain his balance. It felt terribly good to be on solid ground again and on another day, he might have kissed the ground in an effort to make Hermione laugh, but this wasn't another day.

Hermione told him they were near Harry's home. Malfoy immediately forgot the name of the town, but he did remember it sounded like it had more L's than a name ought to have. Malfoy surveyed his surroundings. The town itself was old and crumbling and looked as though it had reached its peak some one to two hundred years ago. The only real feature that struck him was how depressing this place looked – the heavy fog and mist, the old gray buildings and the old gray people.

"Let's go. It's this way," Hermione said, motioning with her nose.

Hermione hefted a small pack on her back and heaved Crookshanks's carrier with both hands. She walked bent at her waist to support the horrid animal. It was apparent that she was experiencing some serious difficulty.

"Here, let me take him," Malfoy said as he took Crookshanks's carrier out of her hand.

"Thanks." Malfoy was rewarded with another smile.

It was then that Malfoy realized how heavy this animal actually was. Of course, this was all made worse with the way Crookshanks seemed to rattle about. It was all quite distracting. "I suppose there's no chance of levitating him?"

"No, not until we are sure no one can see us. Don't worry, it won't be too far." Malfoy was a little concerned about the emphasis Hermione had put on the word "too", but he was a man and determined to take it as such.

Crookshanks howled a low unnatural howl. The sound was actually a bit disconcerting. It was the sort of sound a person would expect a hell-sent demon to make and not an innocuous little mammal.

"I suppose stunning him is out of the question?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Humph." He thought he saw Hermione smile and it made him feel the slightest bit better.

They passed old stone cottages, old women conversing in the street, a few crumbling shops and a few boarded up storefronts. The mist turned into the lightest of drizzles. Within a few short minutes, they were outside the little village and Hermione mercifully told Malfoy that he could lighten their loads and he sighed in relief as he cast the requisite charms. Malfoy let Crookshanks float several feet behind them, glad to be rid of the hairy orange beast for awhile.

As they walked down a crumbling road, Malfoy couldn't help but notice the grayness of the atmosphere. The hills rolled gently and he could see the occasional rock outcropping. Forests were visible in the distance. It could have been a nice landscape were it not so brown and desolate. And yet, there was something slightly wild about the landscape, something slightly creepy and powerful about it.

Hermione and Malfoy walked in silence down a narrow old road that appeared to lead to nowhere. It seemed fitting somehow.

"So," Malfoy said, eager to dissipate the silence and to have the slightest interaction with Hermione, "I have a theory." Hermione's back immediately stiffened.

"Those guys on the Knight Bus," Hermione gave him a confused look, as Malfoy cleared his throat, "yeah, the old one and the shifty looking bloke," Hermione nodded with an odd look on her face, "they're sadists," Malfoy finished with conviction.

"Sadists?" Hermione asked with yet another smile.

"Sadists. Think about it. Muggles don't get to use magic yeah? And their lives are definitely er, different than ours. We have magic to improve our daily lives and such."

"Okay," Hermione said, drawing the word out slowly.

"Yeah, so we get to use magic right? And this is the best we can do? I think those sick bastards enjoy seeing people tossed about like that. Merlin, I don't think I've ever felt that sick. I mean, it can't possibly be necessary to drive around like that." Malfoy was unaware that his little theory was starting to sound like a little rant. "I would like to think that we, as a magical community could do so much better. I shudder to think what those degenerates do on their days off."

Malfoy let his gaze rest on Hermione. She grinned and shook her head in what Malfoy commonly referred to as the look of female exasperation. He was quite familiar with that look. Most men are.

Malfoy smiled back, but he didn't really feel it.

They settled into a somewhat more companionable silence. They trudged down the old road closer and closer to. . . well Malfoy assumed they were closer to Potter's hovel, but it looked like absolutely nothing to him. Perhaps they lived in a cave of some sort. He wouldn't put it past Potter – Malfoy always knew he was a little strange. Despite the fact that Potter was one of Hermione's best friends, Malfoy just couldn't bring himself to think well of him.

They turned on a road here, and then a road there. They were entering some kind of wooded area. Malfoy cast the occasional fleeting look at Hermione. The stolen glances revealed a woman who loved this place. She often closed her eyes and breathed in the heavy air with a little smile on her face. She tilted her head to the sky to let the misty drizzle plaster her face. The little droplets lit upon her hair in tiny little globes, her checks were rosy from the chill and the exercise, and when she wasn't looking at him, she looked genuinely content. An objective observer might take little notice of this rather plain disheveled woman, but she was absolutely bewitching to Malfoy. His heart started to beat just a little faster and a slight sense of longing permeated his numbness.

Malfoy followed Hermione as she led him down yet another narrow and even more rustic road. Weeds grew in the old tracks. They continued to walk on in silence. Malfoy figured they must have traversed several miles already. He was starting to get cold with the chilly air and the misty rain and although he could have cast a Warming Charm, he somehow felt he shouldn't.

Hermione suddenly stopped.

"Listen Malfoy," Hermione began, "I think it goes without saying that you can't tell anyone where Harry and his family live." She looked up at him.

"Right," Malfoy said dutifully.

"No, this is serious Malfoy. You can't even tell anyone that you've seen any of the Potters. They value their privacy and they don't want anyone to come knocking on their door. And besides, Harry would rip you to shreds if you told anyone." Her last statement made Malfoy feel like he was eleven years old again. Malfoy was slightly uneasy with the idea of Potter ripping him to shreds, as Hermione had so delicately put it, and he didn't want to concede that Potter was far more powerful than he could ever hope to be.

"Uh, okay. Why all the secrecy?"

"Malfoy, this is Harry Potter we're talking about." She shrugged. "He didn't want to be Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World anymore. And . . .I don't think he wants to have to explain how it all ended to the whole world."

Malfoy took her hand. "I won't tell anyone and I won't ask any uncomfortable questions. You can trust me Hermione." Malfoy hoped that Hermione would realize that he wasn't solely talking about Harry Potter any more. He didn't deserve or expect her trust, but he thought she had a right to know.

Hermione bit her lip. She seemed to understand.

"I promise. I won't tell anyone." Malfoy said earnestly

Hermione nodded in acknowledgment without looking anywhere in Malfoy's vicinity.

"Hermione-" Malfoy reached for her other hand and tightly grasped them both. Her cool hands fit perfectly within his. He stepped closer and she stepped away.

"No-" Hermione raised a hand to stop him. Her brows knit together, and bit her lipe as if in deep thought. Malfoy waited patiently.

"Malfoy, everything I thought I knew about you - about us is . . . it's wrong." Her words were carefully measured. "And I need to think about it some more and . . . I just need a little time."

"I see." Malfoy's grip on her hands slackened. "We can't put this off forever Hermione."

"I know, I just-" she whispered.

"It's okay."

Malfoy released one hand so that he might cup her cheek. Hermione looked up at him, her face a mixture of uncertainty and sadness. That look threatened to overwhelm him. He had been undeniably numb for most of the day, being too tired and befuddled to feel much of anything, but that look of Hermione's suffused him with emotion. Feeling rushed in at him and crashed around his psyche. The world twirled around him. His breath caught in his throat. He suddenly felt so many things at once, he thought his heart would explode. The most powerful - Love, Regret and Guilt - battled for dominance within him creating a strange sensation within his chest. Malfoy sucked in his breath sharply. Gods how he wanted to wrap himself around her and take away all the pain she had ever felt. He clenched his jaw – he would not do that to her. She simply deserved more than he could possibly give her.

He gave himself a few moments to recover his composure as Hermione watched him.

"I meant what I said last night." Hermione's eyes traveled all over his face and bore deeply into his eyes. She made no verbal response.

"I do love you." His other hand found its way into her damp, messy hair. "And you have no idea how sorry I am." He returned her intense gaze as best he could. Unconsciously, he leaned forward to touch his forehead to hers. She needed to know. She needed to know that she was worth such an emotion, even if it was from an overall worthless man.

He swallowed hard before he continued, "Whatever you decide, I will understand." Whatever she decided, he wouldn't understand, especially if that decision banished him from her life, as he suspected it might, but sometimes people need to say things they don't mean to the ones they love.

Hermione closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around his midsection and rested her head upon his chest and Malfoy did not hesitate to enclose her in his arms. He gently placed light kisses on the top of her head and nuzzled his face into her damp hair. His control was slipping.

"Thank you," Hermione said quietly. As Hermione pulled away, Malfoy experienced some difficulty in releasing her from his grasp, firmly believing that this could very well be the last time he would hold her so closely.

Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her robes. "It isn't much further now. Once we pass that tree," Hermione pointed to the tallest tree in the area, "we are going to hit the protective spells around their property." Hermione grabbed Malfoy's hand as they began walking again.

"What spells does he have here?"

"Oh, the usual protection and keep-away spells, but he modified some of them so they are slightly different than what most wizards have encountered, so people don't notice that they've hit them. It's going to take me a few minutes to disarm them," Hermione said, pulling out her wand and getting to work.

Malfoy watched through droopy eyelids for a few moments and then collapsed on a fallen log. He felt the dampness of the log seep through his trousers, but Malfoy simply didn't care. Hermione waved her wand in complicated movements and gently chanted charms. Something akin to an energy field pulsed as she worked different charms on the area. It was quite apparent that these were no ordinary protection spells. And Malfoy was content to watch her work. The air cackled with magic and energy. If Malfoy were a maudlin man, he would have thought the whole scene magical, but he wasn't.

After a quarter of an hour and countless charms later, the air seemed to part before Hermione revealing a beautiful stone home.

"Look, you can see the house," Hermione pointed down the road.

An big old stone house was situated on a bit of a rise. Stately trees surrounded the home and someone had planted flowers around the outside. It seemed out of place here. The architecture was not terribly out of the ordinary for this area, but Malfoy had a feeling that this house wouldn't be as cold as the other houses they had passed.

The front door opened and Harry Potter stepped through.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked and ran towards him. Malfoy watched Potter embrace her and give her a little twirl about. Hermione whispered something in Potter's ear as soon as he put her down. Potter turned his head to watch Malfoy. The two men looked at each other, one with interest, one with defeat – Potter raised an eyebrow in reaction to whatever it was Hermione had told him. Malfoy didn't know what transpired between the two, but he did know that he wasn't eager to face Potter again. Slow steps carried Malfoy to Hermione's side.

"Potter."

"Malfoy." The two men shook hands, each squeezing a bit tighter than necessary.

Hermione and Potter chatted amiably about this and that as they entered the old home. Malfoy didn't particularly want to admit it, but Potter's home was warm and welcoming. The rooms were homey and informal and they had a definite feel of being completely lived in. Magical and non-magical plants twined themselves around the ceiling, across walls and through fixtures. There were books and toys scattered about, interspersed between and sometimes within the plants. The light was warm and welcoming and Malfoy could hear the happy crackle of a fire in the hearth.

"Auntie My, Auntie My," two little voices exclaimed as two small children barreled down the hallway. A slight scuffle ensued when a little boy and a little girl both seemed determined to get to "Auntie My" before the other.

Hermione knelt on the ground and welcomed both children with hugs and kisses. The children spoke quickly, telling their Auntie about the drawings they had made for her and the new toad the little boy had gotten a few days earlier, and the boy had put the new toad in the girl's bed and Daddy was mad at him for it and Mummy was going to have a new baby and did Auntie My know what the baby's name would be, because they both wanted to know, but the baby didn't want to come out of Mummy's tummy yet and did Auntie My know when the baby would come out because Mummy and Daddy wouldn't tell them and they both wanted to play with the baby, but Daddy said that the baby wouldn't want to play with them for awhile because the baby would be so small and the baby would be tired from coming out of Mummy and did Auntie My think that was right? Did the baby really not want to play with them? Each child tried to pull "Auntie My's" attention in their direction, each clinging to her like especially talkative barnacles.

Malfoy didn't know much about children and hadn't had much experience in that area, but he imagined they were both between the ages of zero and five. The little boy appeared to be the older one - Malfoy knew this because he was bigger than the girl. There was nothing terribly remarkable about them as far as children went – they were cute and dirty and Malfoy surmised that they probably smelled.

A couple of sweets were brought from the recesses of Hermione's robe when she was pressed for them. She told them that she would be here the whole week and began talking of all the fun things the three of them would do together. Malfoy had never really seen Hermione as the matronly type. She was good to her students, but she wasn't overly indulgent as she was with these two. Malfoy couldn't help but wonder how often Hermione came here. Her connection with these children could certainly clarify her unexplained absences. Malfoy wondered how well he really knew her. She had made so little of herself available to him.

These two little people were obviously devoted to Hermione, and he could see by the way she looked at them that Hermione would do anything for these children. She listened attentively and responded to every broken sentence. She smiled and laughed. She hugged and she kissed. She let them bask in her attention and love. For one brief moment, until he reminded himself that such things were unacceptable for a rational adult, Malfoy despised these children and the hold they had over his Hermione.

Potter cleared his throat, "Alright you two." He peeled one squirming child off Hermione so that she could easily disentangle herself from the other. Still holding the little girl, Hermione turned to Malfoy.

"Ellie, this is my friend, Draco Malfoy. Can you say hello to him?" The little girl looked at Malfoy and then buried her face in Hermione's neck

Hermione giggled, "Ellie, he won't bite, I promise you."

Malfoy thought this might be his cue to say something to the effect that no indeed, he did not bite and he would very much like to make her acquaintance, but he wasn't about to attempt something as flummoxing as communication with a child. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Potter was watching him closely.

"Elise sweetheart, don't you want to meet my friend?" The girl merely clung even tighter to her auntie and with a laugh, Hermione hugged her tightly.

Something tugged at Malfoy's trousers. He looked down to see the little boy watching him.

"Who're you?" the little boy demanded with a scowl about his face.

Malfoy awkwardly leaned over the boy, "Er, I'm Draco Malfoy. Uh, what's your name?"

"Matthew." The boy regarded him for awhile. "Wanna see Ed?"

"Uh sure." Matthew turned and bolted away, apparently in search some bloke named Ed.

"Did you bring Crookshanks Hermione?" Potter asked, sounding shocked.

"Kitty!" Ellie removed her buried head, struggled out of Hermione's arms and darted toward Crookshanks's carrier.

"Well, I just didn't want to leave him all alone for a week."

"I'm sure he can take care of himself Hermione."

"Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!"

"I know, I just," she shrugged and she suddenly looked very vulnerable to Malfoy, "I just wanted him with me."

"Are you daft woman?" Harry asked, incredulously.

"KITTY!" Malfoy had not been aware up until this point that such a large voice could come out of such a small creature.

"Maybe just a little," Hermione said, smiling down at Ellie and Crookshanks.

Hermione knelt by the carrier. "Remember, you need to be gentle with Crookshanks. He's very old and he needs you to be careful." Ellie nodded while she jumped up and down in her excitement.

"Okay, I'm going to let him out now."

Malfoy would not have believed if had he not seen it. He had previously been convinced that nothing could possibly frighten Crookshanks. Crookshanks was not a normal cat. He walked with the confidence of an animal who knows nothing will bother it. He positively swaggered sometimes. The animal could probably stare down a hippogriff if he so wished to. But one look at little Ellie threw the animal into the feline version of hysterics – Crookshanks hissed at the little girl and his fur, already fluffy, puffed out, so that nothing could distinguish the animal from a gaudy fur pillow. Running low to the ground, Crookshanks disappeared out of sight.

Ellie's lip began to quiver. Hermione swept her up in her arms and offered her another sweet. This seemed to make everything all better.

"I think that was the funniest thing I've ever seen," Malfoy said, still in amazement that this cute little girl could scare the indomitable Crookshanks.

Potter chuckled. "Here," he passed Hermione's satchel to Malfoy, "I'll help you guys get settled."

Malfoy and Potter carried the bags up a narrow old staircase. Hermione followed behind with Ellie still in her arms. She was telling the little girl that nothing was wrong with her, that Crookshanks was a crabby old cat and he didn't like anyone – no he didn't even like Uncle Ron! No really! Malfoy correctly surmised that now was not the time to inform them that Crookshanks liked him just fine.

Potter directed Malfoy to turn into a room that reminded him of Hermione. It was light and airy and there were massive bookshelves crammed full of all manner of books. Potter tossed Hermione's small bag on the bed.

"Hermione, you two sharing a room or what?"

Hermione looked up from her conversation with Ellie, slightly flustered by the question.

"Oh, er well, I don't know. What would you like Malfoy?"

Malfoy paused for a moment as he imagined sharing a room with Hermione. Unwanted images fluttered through his mind – her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, her body pliant and willing, her sounds, oh gods her sounds – Malfoy stopped himself, there was no need to torture himself with something that would be forever out of his reach. Knowing her as he did, Malfoy knew that she wasn't inviting him for casual sex or non-casual sex as the case may be, but for something else – something platonic and maybe intimate. It didn't matter to him, he wanted her in his arms again. It was the most he could possibly hope for, but he didn't want to seem overly eager and desperate in front of Potter, so he answered as diplomatically as he knew how.

"Whatever you would like Hermione."

Very deliberately, Hermione put Ellie down. All was silent for several moments save for the sounds Ellie made as she romped about the room and crawled up on the bed. Hermione appeared totally unembarrassed by her indecision.

"Well, I guess I don't know," Hermione said, looking bewildered.

A heavy silence fell on the room, soon broken by Potter. "You can decide whenever you want, Hermione. For right now, we'll just leave your stuff here, okay?" Potter asked, in a surprisingly gentle voice. Potter looked at Hermione meaningfully and Hermione gave him a weak smile. The intensity of their friendship was palatable.

The whisper of little footsteps echoed down the hallway and soon pounded into the room.

"Here's Ed!" shouted little Matthew, and with a devious little smirk threw a large ugly toad onto the bed in front of his sister who immediately started shrieking. Malfoy got the impression that the girl was in no way frightened of the toad, but was making a show of it for whatever reason. The sounds of Ellie shrieking, Potter yelling at his son, and Matthew explaining that the tall man wanted to meet Ed all meshed together into horrible domestic cacophony. Potter somehow ushered two upset children and a struggling toad out of the room. If this was family life, Malfoy wanted no part of it.

Hermione faced Malfoy. "You look dead tired. Why don't you sleep for awhile? We'll have dinner in a few hours and then you can seen Luna – Harry mentioned that she's napping as well." Malfoy had known all day that he was exhausted, but he didn't actually feel it until Hermione made the suggestion.

Hermione pulled back the covers on the bed. Malfoy simply collapsed. She then pulled off his shoes and tucked the covers around him. Malfoy could do nothing but watch her. He wanted to do something bold like pull her in the bed with him and tell her that he would never again let her go, but his arms felt like dead weights. Malfoy felt his throat close as he watched her. She loved it in this place, she loved these children and was an integral part of their lives and she had never told him, because part of him just _knew_ that he wasn't an integral part of her life. But he couldn't let the hopelessness win. Not yet. Not until Hermione wasn't here to witness it. He would never again place such a burden upon her.

She moved about the room for a few moments, putting things away and such. If he'd had the energy, he would have hated her. Hated her for not telling him of this place. Hated her for not telling him of these children to whom she was obviously devoted. Hated her for not trusting him. Hated her for not loving him. But he simply didn't possess that energy.

Hermione left the room with a promise to wake him in time for dinner. The sound of the rain and wind against the windowpanes had him asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow that smelled like Hermione.

_It pulled him down and kept him still. He was gently pushed into something luxurious and warm. It was dark, but he could see. It melted into him and enclosed him within, protecting him._

_Sometimes . . . sometimes dreams are soft. Sometimes they envelope a man and infuse him with whispered reassurances, however false those promises may turn out to be. Sometimes, dreams are all a man has to hold on to. And sometimes that's enough. Because sometimes . . . sometimes a man is willing to hope for things that experience has taught him will be forever out of his reach._

_But only sometimes. _

_So those promises must be grasped tightly when they are sometimes offered._

_And he did._

Everything was a little hazy, but it was not an unhappy haze. "Malfoy, it's time to get up," a soft gentle voice implored him. Malfoy drew all the air he could into his lungs and reveled in the feeling of his slowly expanding lungs. The air was fresh and clean. He unfolded his limbs and stretched out his long body. The sheets and quilts twisted around him as he rolled and shifted and moaned.

Something felt different. Something was new. It was an lifetime since he felt so rested and an eternity since he felt so aware. Something compelled him to smile as he rolled his head against the pillow. With a contented moan, he slowly opened his eyes to find Hermione sitting awkwardly on the bed beside him. It looked as though she had tried to tie her hair back, but it was sticking out everywhere, their were various stains on her shirt. Their was nothing special about her appearance. Her eyes weren't glowing with some inner light, she wasn't beautiful in a plain sort of way, her hair certainly didn't fall gracefully about her shoulders, her skin wasn't flawless. There was nothing special about her appearance. Merlin, but he loved her.

Malfoy had always been able to see Hermione for what she was and more importantly, what she wasn't. He wasn't one of those infatuated fools who assigned characteristics to their loves that didn't actually exist, and then when infatuation passed, found themselves disappointed. Malfoy knew that Hermione was not beautiful, but he found her to be so, even with her dull complexion, awful hair and average figure. That did not mean that he loved her any less. Malfoy always believed that meant he loved her more – he didn't have to make her into something she was not to love her as he did. And he did love her. He had not doubted it for years. There was no room for doubt. It simply was, and Malfoy suspected, it always would be.

Malfoy could see things about Hermione that other men missed - the lightness and openness of her expression, the softness of her features, the kindness in her eyes – and that _made_ her the most beautiful woman in the world. Seeing her before him now, he knew he would not let her go. Last night, he had doubted everything he thought the two of them had ever had and shared. He had doubted his own self, his own being, but not his love. It was all he really had. It was the only thing that made him real, that made him feel, that gave him life. But how could he possibly hope to make Hermione happy after what he had done to her? He had convinced himself that all was hopeless and this morning, he had believed it. How could any couple overcome such distrust and so many years of disappointment and pain? He had decided to take this holiday with Hermione without any hope of anything materializing between them – he didn't deserve it, but he would take it in any case. But things were different at this moment. He didn't just have hope that things would work out between them, he had . . . he had _faith_ – it was a completely foreign feeling for Malfoy, and although he was slightly suspicious of it, he couldn't help but enjoy the sensation. The Malfoy of even three days ago would have called him a blithering idiot, but the Malfoy of today silently rejoiced in it.

"Hi," he said in a thick sleepy voice. He smiled as he confidently grasped her hand.

"Hi."

Malfoy reached up and pulled on a piece of string around her neck that held a single button.

"Oh, Ellie made me a necklace." Together, they smiled at the jewelery making abilities of a small girl.

Hermione pushed a strand of hair out of his face. "It's time to eat."

Malfoy stretched and moaned and groaned in response. Hermione grabbed his hand. "Let's go." His little Hermione had to nearly drag his happy yet reluctant arse out of bed. Although his sleepy eyes were still slightly unfocused, he chuckled at the sight. She finally got him standing.

"Oh come here." Hermione pulled Malfoy down to her level and smoothed his hair. He rather liked her fussing, especially with the way her hands were entangled in his hair like that. When she was through, he placed an impetuous kiss on the tip of her nose.

"Yes, well," Hermione cleared her throat, "it's time to eat."

The two made their way into the dining area. Almost immediately, Malfoy came face to face with the most intense pale blue eyes he had ever seen. They were incredibly round and wide and seemingly endless.

"Malfoy, do you remember Luna?" Hermione asked.

"What, huh?" He looked down at Hermione, a question on her face.

"Do you remember Luna?" repeated Hermione.

"Oh of course. Thank you for allowing me to stay with you." He smiled and offered his hand to the woman he did not remember. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place her. She was rather tall and somewhat homely with short, blond hair. Her most striking feature was her generously round belly.

"It's good to see you again Draco. Have you been well?" Luna asked.

Malfoy opened his mouth to deliver the perfunctory response, but stopped and found himself truthfully answering her question. "Better than can be expected." The answer surprised Malfoy, but he couldn't help but believe that this woman would see right through him if he lied to her.

"I see." There was no censure in her voice, but a faint whisper of understanding. "I do hope that you have a wonderful time with us. Hermione is a very welcome guest here, as are you. My dear husband perhaps forgot to mention that you are welcome to anything you find here, and if there is anything you require to make your stay more comfortable, you must mention it to Harry or me and we will do anything we can to accommodate you."

"Thank you. I am very much looking forward to my stay here." Malfoy couldn't decide if she was genuinely gracious or if she merely imitated a greeting she heard in a swanky hotel at some point in her life. There was definitely something a little different about this woman – she had a look about her – something that suggested that she wasn't precisely living in reality, but made frequent visits to the place.

Potter frogmarched his son next to Luna. "Malfoy, my son has something he would like to say to you."

Malfoy smiled down at Matthew. The boy looked down and mumbled something very incoherent.

"Matthew, Mr Malfoy cannot hear you."

Matthew looked up with a slight scowl. "I'm sorry I threw Ed on your bed." Malfoy noticed that the boy had his mother's eyes. They did not contain the same warmth as he was scowling at the moment.

"That's quite alright." Malfoy felt up to attempting communication with a child. "And how is Ed after his little adventure?"

"He's in his tank. Daddy won't let me take him out for a whole week!"

"A whole week? Poor Ed." Matthew grumbled in agreement.

Malfoy continued his conversation with Matthew while dinner was served. Communication with a child wasn't quite as horrible as he had imagined it to be. There was a lot of listening, nodding and laughter. The laughter was genuine.

"Daddy said he would take me an' Ed to the pond, but Ellie can't come cause she's just a baby."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Matthew what did I tell you about treating your sister like that?" Luna said, serenely cutting through her children's shouting.

"Sorry mummy," Matthew said.

"And Ellie, that is no excuse to hit your brother," Luna said.

"Sorry mummy," Ellie said

The intimacy of the table was something Malfoy had never really felt before. He'd had dinners that were supposed to be intimate before, but this was something completely different. Everyone was relaxed and content, except for Matthew whenever Ed was brought up, which his sister did with surprising alacrity. Luna sat at the head of the table, with Hermione at her right. The two women talked and laughed, they teased the poor men at the table, they discussed a new potion Luna was working on and made plans for the week ahead.

Harry Potter spent much of the meal trying to keep his children in line. Malfoy was a little shocked at the way Potter spoke to his children. Malfoy's childhood experience had been quite different. Lucius Malfoy never yelled, he merely expected to be obeyed and he was.

"Merlin's balls Matthew, do you have to do that at the table?" Potter exclaimed.

"Harry," Luna said, her voice as even as ever.

"Sorry dear."

"Matthew darling, just because Daddy used inappropriate language does not mean that you can continue putting things up your nose."

"Yeth mummy."

Malfoy Senior was always polite, but there was something about him that children feared and adults respected out of fear. Potter grumbled and growled at his children, but for the most part, they didn't seem to mind. Potter looked like hell, with all the scars criss-crossing his face, he sounded like hell with all his gruffness, but his children did not fear him.

"Daddy Daddy! Can I tell the story, um, the one-the one when you fell in the pond an' an' mummy pulled you out?" Ellie giggled.

"Of course you can Ellie my angel."

Ellie and her father even engaged in a scowling match, which Ellie eventually won when her father broke out into a massive smile. Matthew then tried his hand at scowling with his father, which he won as well, to the cheers of the rest of the table. Potter might be generous with his children, but Malfoy was almost certain that if he engaged in such a match with Potter that it would not be so easily won.

Malfoy felt a lightness with these people that he hadn't felt in quite some time. He could see it in Hermione as well. She was at home here with her friends. Another day might have found Malfoy feeling surges of jealousy, but now he was an objective yet interested observer. That did not mean that he didn't engage in conversation, because he did, but he could see Hermione in a way that he had been unable to before. Her barriers were not stationed - Malfoy could see a glimmer in her eye and heard a slight change in the timbre of her voice. She trusted these people. For the most part, she was utterly relaxed here and Malfoy counted his few blessings that she invited him to accompany her. The only moments when Hermione was not completely relaxed was when she made eye contact with Malfoy. He couldn't help but smile at her, and Hermione simply looked slightly uneasy.

"Hermione would you help me a bit with the nursery this week? I'm a little concerned about the color scheme," Luna asked.

"Oh of course."

"Do you remember how much Ellie hated that yellow? It must not be a very nurturing color. I don't want the baby to feel unwelcome."

Nothing seemed quite real, but at the same time, it seemed more real than anything he had ever experienced before. Part of him couldn't help but wonder if he was still dreaming as everything seemed to have an element of the truly odd about it. He was, Merlin forbid, comfortable with these people and that simply couldn't be right. It was in the way that there were no pretensions. Luna could see right through him, Potter didn't like him, the kids might hit him up for stories or sweets or whatever it was that children wanted from adults. And Hermione . . . was Hermione . . . only more so. They were what they were and nothing more or less. Malfoy was actually laughing at Potter's interaction with his kids.

They spent the rest of the evening in conversation. The four adults talked about subjects of little consequence. There was the occasional awkward pause, but they dutifully plowed through those moments. Potter and Malfoy took the occasional verbal shot at each other while Hermione and Luna shook their heads at the modern male bravado. Matthew and Ellie were also a welcome distraction. They always had something to say and something to do.

"Mummy can I pet the baby?"

"Of course dearest."

Matthew and Ellie climbed all over Potter and Hermione, they gave Luna's belly reverent hugs and caresses and they often asked after Crookshanks and wondered if he might want to make friends with Ed. Malfoy supposed that such a meeting would only be beneficial for Crookshanks.

"Everybody likes Ed!" Matthew exclaimed with excitement.

"But Crookie is a meanie. Auntie My said so," Ellie said with seriousness that did not suit her well.

Later in the night, after the kids had been put to bed in some very complicated and very loud and whiny nighttime ritual, Hermione and Luna disappeared to the master bedroom to do whatever it is that women do together, and Malfoy and Potter were left to themselves at the kitchen table. It was painfully obvious that neither particularly wished to be there.

"Here," Potter handed Malfoy a glass of firewhiskey after he had refilled his own.

"Er, nice place you have here." Malfoy thought it was the thing to say when indifferent people don't have anything to say to one another.

"Thanks," Potter answered with a calculating look on his face. It was disquieting.

"Nice kids you've got."

"You obviously don't know them all that well," Potter said, but he had a look about him that suggested that he was immeasurably proud of his little family.

"So what are Hermione and Luna doing anyway?"

"Who the hell knows? They're women." Potter said as though that answered the only really important questions that have ever been asked.

"Ha." Malfoy swirled the liquid in his glass and watched as it moved around and around.

Peels of laughter cascaded down the stairs from the master bedroom and into the kitchen.

"Aw Christ," Potter grumbled, letting his head fall on the table. "Well, I'm gonna kip out in one of the other rooms – I don't think I'll get my bedroom back tonight."

Malfoy reluctantly rose to follow Potter. He didn't want to stay and talk with Potter, but he also didn't want to go to bed without at least saying good-night to Hermione. Malfoy couldn't help but wonder if she had decided to share a room with him or not. Potter stopped and distracted as he was, Malfoy ran right into him.

Potter cleared his throat. "About Hermione-" Potter said in a tight voice. Malfoy had known that something like this might happen and was not completely unprepared.

"It doesn't really need to be said does it?" Potter asked.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, knowing exactly to what Potter was referring.

"I'm sure if you used your imagination, you can probably guess what I'd do to you if you use her again." A muscle twitched in Potter's jaw. It made him look like the kind of man who had defeated the darkest wizard in a millennium.

Malfoy nodded. The corner of Malfoy's mouth lifted imperceptibly – it was funny. It really was – the way the two of them would do anything to protect Hermione and the way the two of them had so completely failed to keep her from pain and sorrow.

"I'm glad we understand each other. Sleep well," Potter said. And with that, Potter left the room.

Malfoy slowly walked up the stairs and into the room he had napped in earlier. He could see the light under the door to the master bedroom and he could hear the subdued voices. Potter probably did have a point, of some sort – Hermione and Luna were women – they could talk about anything and everything at length and Malfoy probably wouldn't understand half of what they said to each other.

When Malfoy opened the door, he saw Crookshanks perched on the bed looking like he had been ready to make a run for it. He relaxed upon seeing that the intruder was in the over-five set. Malfoy patted him on the head and the old cat butted his head against Malfoy's hand. Hermione's things were still left on the chair in the corner, untouched. Malfoy couldn't help but hope that Hermione would crawl into bed with him.

Malfoy crawled into bed and ran his hand over the cool sheets. He had a week. A week with Hermione and the people she loved. His eyes drooped. She had brought him here and Luna had welcomed him here. His breathing slowed. How much time would Hermione need? He would show her the man he could be, the man he wanted to be for her. His mind slowed as he thought of her. They needed each other. She would not have let him figure so prominently into her life if she didn't need something from him as well. She had invited him here. She had given him every reason to hope before yesterday. He would make it up to her. Malfoy felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt in years – it would all work out. Of this, he was absolutely sure. He fell asleep before he could finalize his makeshift plan for the week ahead.

Sometimes, dreams _are_ soft.


End file.
